Читать книгу License to Thrill - Tori Carrington, Tori Carrington - Страница 7

JUST THINKING about Marc McCoy made Melanie Weber tingle with need. Even now. Especially now.

She slid her palms over the thick silk of the traditional wedding dress she was being fitted for. It was ironic, really. She had never thought of her relationship with Marc in the traditional sense. Still, she had expected they’d always be together. Always be partners. Always be lovers.

But that was three months ago. Before she realized Marc could never love her. Before she was injured in the line of duty. Before she found out she was pregnant.

Melanie reluctantly opened her eyes, then tugged her hands away from the wedding dress. A pinpoint of guilt started in her stomach and slowly spread through the rest of her body. The last person she should be thinking about was Marc McCoy. She’d carefully tucked him in the past the day Craig had generously offered to solve both their problems by proposing to her. She owed it to Craig to keep focused on their plans for the future. She owed it to herself to keep her thoughts away from the past and all that could never be.

Still she recognized the churning signs of panic that had been swirling in her since she and Craig had picked up their marriage license that morning. She’d felt the same way the day she had faced her mother to tell her that she wasn’t majoring in business, as her mother so wanted. Only now she suspected hormones were more to blame for her anxiety—she hoped.

She turned slightly to view her profile. Funny, her jumbled thoughts didn’t keep her from longing to wear a dress with an open décolletage neckline. But that was impossible. The fresh scar just below her left collarbone was difficult to look at, even for her. She could imagine what would happen if she flashed her gunshot wound to one hundred of Bedford, Maryland’s, prominent citizens, much less her own mother. She shook her head. The seed-pearl-studded mock turtleneck that covered nearly every inch of her skin would have to do.

Melanie sucked in her stomach. If she didn’t have the dress let out just a tad, she would split a seam in front of Craig Gaffney, God and everyone halfway down the aisle two days from now.

“Wouldn’t that fuel Bedford’s gossip hot line for at least a month?” she whispered to her reflection. As it was, she’d already given them enough to talk about. Scary, since they didn’t even know the half of it.

“Joanie? Can you come here for a minute?” she called.

Her younger sister, Joanie, owned the Once Upon a Time Bridal Shoppe. It was just before closing, and with June looming but a few days away, Melanie’s dress wasn’t the only thing bursting at the seams. The shop was filled with stressed-out brides and overbearing mothers. She stuck her head into the hall. In the room opposite hers, Joanie slid a stray pin from the fabric peach forever around her wrist, then blew her hair from her eyes.

“Be with you in a minute, Melanie.”

“Hey, be careful!” complained the bride whose dress Joanie skillfully worked on. “If you get so much as one drop of blood on this dress, I won’t hesitate to sue.”

Melanie ducked into her dressing room. Her sister could probably make a good chunk of change by videotaping some of the more interesting fittings and selling the footage to their grooms. But something like that would never occur to Joanie. Her sister’s generous spirit and endless patience were the main reasons her business had grown so successful. They were also the reason she radiated happiness like a sweet perfume.

Melanie glimpsed her own rare smile in the mirror, then eyed the chair behind her. But no matter how much she wanted to rest her swollen feet, she didn’t dare sit down. Not unless she decided to let out the dress herself in a way that would guarantee she couldn’t wear it two days from now.

Saturday. Her wedding.

Her throat tightened, choking off her airway. She closed her eyes to ward off the unwanted reaction. Cold feet, that’s all it was. A major case of cold feet. What more could it be?

“You can handle this, Mellie. I don’t think I’ve met a braver woman than you. Aside from my Mary, of course.”

The words conjured up the image of Sean’s kind, time-marked face and sober green eyes.

Sean. Just Sean. She didn’t know his last name. But his presence had been the only thing that had kept her sane during that long week in the hospital. Odd, she thought, because he had been little more than a stranger. A visitor, there for another patient, who had entered the wrong room and found her alone and crying. It was the only time she’d been left alone by her mother, Joanie and Craig, who had all meant well but hadn’t a clue how to handle an injured secret service agent whose heart was breaking for the only person who hadn’t visited.

Sean hadn’t pried. He hadn’t tried to comfort her. He’d simply handed her a tissue and sat next to her bed as if it had been her he had come to visit all along.

Picking up a bouquet sample, Melanie listlessly straightened a silk lily of the valley in the all-white waterfall bouquet. She hadn’t seen Sean since she had been discharged, and hadn’t expected to. But thinking about him made her realize how much she missed her father. Made her selfishly yearn to have him there if only for an hour or so. If only to walk her down the aisle.

Blinking back unexpected tears, she refocused on the bouquet. Merely looking at the fake flowers made her feel like a fake herself. She turned away, not sure she wanted to see the woman reflected in the smooth glass. Three months ago…

“Three months ago you were a fool in love with your career. And an even bigger fool in lust with Marc McCoy,” she said softly.

She tossed the bouquet to the velvet chair and reached back to undo her dress, but she could barely move her arms. Joanie had trussed her in. It looked as if Joanie would have to let her out.

She sighed. “Just peachy.”

Joanie poked her head around the corner. “Whatcha need?”

Melanie sighed with relief then tried to pinch the tiniest bit of fabric away from her waist. “You were right. It needs letting out.”

“I was afraid of that.” Joanie came to stand behind her, assessing the damage. “I really hate to tell you I told you so, but—”

“You told me so.” Melanie watched her sister slide into her role as seamstress. While she may have spent the past eight years bucking tradition, Joanie had always been content with her life. More than that, she seemed to cherish the role she’d created for herself as everyone’s best friend.

It struck Melanie as odd that she should be the one getting married when her sister was still inexplicably single.

Joanie sighed wistfully. “I really do love this dress.” She smoothed the puckered seam. “I think it’s the one I would pick, you know, if I was in your place.” A shadow briefly moved over her pretty, freckled face. “You’re lucky, you know? I don’t think there’s a time in my life when I can’t remember Craig being around. And he’s always had such a crush on you.” She brushed a strand of red hair from her cheek. “You couldn’t ask for a better man….”

Her soft words drifted off. Melanie watched her sister, wondering if she was going to mention that the most she and Craig had ever been were friends. The best of friends, but just friends. But her sister appeared to be thinking of something else entirely.

“Joanie?”

Her sister blinked then stared at Melanie in the mirror. “Sorry, must have drifted off there. I haven’t had more than a couple hours sleep in the past two days.”

Melanie looked at her a little more closely. “Are you sure that’s all it is?”

“Sure? Of course I’m sure.” She tried to pinch the back of the dress. “Wow, exactly how much weight have you put on since last month?”

She gently batted Joanie away from where she poked at her stomach. “Not all that much.”

“Is it that time of the month?”

“No.” Melanie wished it were that simple. If only she could tell Joanie why, exactly, she had grown out of her dress. But doing so would undermine Craig’s generosity and would open up a whole different can of worms.

Two more days. Two more days and she could tell her sister and her mother.

Joanie pulled back. “No doubt about it. The seams need to be let out at least a half inch.”

Melanie swallowed hard. The formal rehearsal dinner her mother had insisted on was only… She glanced at her watch. “Oh, God, I’ve only got a half hour to get to Bedford Inn.”

Just then, an electronic bell rang, followed by a too-innocent, “Yoo-hoo!”

Joanie caught Melanie’s gaze in the mirror.

“Mother,” they said in unison.

“I’ll take care of her,” Melanie said, a heartbeat later. “You go finish up whatever you have to, so you can help me out at this dinner.”

“Hmm. I don’t know. A choice between dinner with Mother and your soon-to-be in-laws or playing voodoo doll with the bride next door? Tough call.”

Melanie latched onto Joanie’s arm. “Please don’t make me go through this alone.”

Her sister’s green eyes widened in mild surprise. “Melanie, you’re not facing a firing squad. Even if you were, you would be the one person I know who could handle it.” She covered Melanie’s hand with her own. “Okay, I’ll be there.” She laughed quietly. “But I have to say, you’re on your own for the honeymoon.”

Honeymoon. Melanie’s stomach tightened to the point of pain.

She gathered fistfuls of her full skirt in her hands and led the way from the room. She’d like to say she was surprised by her mother’s impromptu visit, but really couldn’t. Her mother had always been good at reading her. She didn’t doubt Wilhemenia Weber had picked up on the emotional turmoil she’d been going through for the past few months. And if she knew her mother, Wilhemenia wouldn’t stop until she found out what was going on.

IN HIS JEEP outside the bridal shop, Marc McCoy absently rubbed the back of his neck, then flicked the air-conditioning on. He didn’t know if it was the heat or his anxiety about what he was planning to do that made the temperature in the all-terrain vehicle intolerable, but if Mel took much longer, he was going to stalk in there after her. He grimaced. Who was he kidding? He wasn’t going anywhere. He’d sit here and wait just as he had for the past forty-five minutes. All because he’d been too wrapped up in his thoughts when she’d gone in to see his plan through. Eight solid hours of planning, and he’d been knocked out of commission just at the thought of coming face-to-face with her for the first time in three months.

He directed the cool air vent toward his face, then let his gaze drift to the two glossy magazines on the passenger seat. He resisted the urge to grab the first one to find out exactly “what a woman looks for in a man.” It wasn’t long ago he wouldn’t have been caught dead reading this stuff. But Mel’s absence in his life had left him with a gaping hole and long, endless nights that he tried to fill with reason.

He grabbed the magazines and shoved them under his seat.

He looked at his watch, then returned his attention to the shop.

He didn’t know why, exactly, he had hesitated when he first spotted Melanie leaving her mother’s house. For Pete’s sake, he didn’t even know why he hadn’t marched right into the house the moment he got into town.

Frustrated with his hesitation, he shut off the car engine, then reached for the door handle. His hand froze on the sun-warmed metal. Melanie’s mother was walking down the street looking like a woman on a mission.

“Uh-oh.”

Instantly, he was reminded why he hadn’t gone into the small house on Cherry Blossom Road. Because of Mel’s mother.

What was she doing here? In order to do what he had to, Mel had to be alone. She’d gone into the shop alone, and he’d expected her to come out the same way. What he hadn’t banked on was Wilhemenia Weber, who looked as though she’d come fresh from sucking on a dozen lemons, deciding to pay a visit.

She could be here to see Joanie, Marc thought. I hope she’s here to visit Joanie.

Five minutes later, the late afternoon sun reflected off the bridal shop door, and he sat up straighter.

“Show time.” Mel stepped onto the brick sidewalk. At least it looked like Mel. Grimacing, he slid down his sunglasses and squinted at the woman leaving. Yep, it was her all right. Minus the jeans, T-shirt and blue blazer she’d been wearing when she went in. Now she was decked out in one very short dress. But it was definitely her. It’s about time. What did she do? Decide to wear her purchase home? He reached for the door handle again. If he lived to be two hundred, he’d never understand what it was with women and clothes. He still had at least eight pairs of Mel’s shoes cluttering the closet in his town house. Keeping his gaze focused on Mel, he began to climb out…then froze.

There weren’t very many things Marc McCoy, Secret Service Agent, third of five proudly macho male siblings, was afraid of. But he was man enough to admit that Wilhemenia Weber was one of them. And when she followed Mel out of the shop, she threw a wrench the size of a semi truck into his plans.

“Damn.”

Marc fought the urge to sink down in his seat. Not only to keep Mel from spotting him, but to prevent her mother from focusing her fault-finding gaze on him. Oh, yeah, he’d met her once. And that one time was enough to know the woman would never like him. He grimaced, finding it difficult to believe it was just over three months ago, before that stupid discussion about love and before Mel’s injury, that she’d talked him into going home for Sunday dinner.

Mrs. Weber’s disapproving stare had started when he sat on the couch, causing the thick plastic furniture cover to crackle in a way that had made him flinch even as Mel laughed. The Stare had followed him throughout dinner, where Wilhemenia had jerked his soup bowl out from under his nose—apparently because he wasn’t convincing enough while trying to choke back the thick, cold green stuff—and ending when she’d practically slammed the door on him when he’d only been halfway out.

The only saving grace was that Mel had taken a perverse sort of pleasure in the whole ordeal. But he absolutely drew the line at returning to that woman’s home. Unless she took that stupid plastic off her furniture and ordered in for pizza and beer.

He sobered, realizing that would never happen. Not until Mel invited him back into her life.

His gaze followed mother and daughter down the sidewalk of the quaint little town of Bedford. What was more than a little unsettling was that he still wished Mrs. Weber had liked him…at least a little.

The risk of being spotted gone, Marc scanned the street before he slowly switched his attention to Mel. And found it suddenly difficult to breathe.

He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but she looked different somehow. Her blond hair was slightly longer, brushing the top of her shoulders in a curly way that caught the rays of the early evening sun. But that wasn’t it. Then it dawned on him. It was the dress. Well, not the dress, exactly, but the fact that she was wearing it. In muted pink with shiny flowery things stamped on the fabric, it was exactly the type of thing Mel wouldn’t have been caught dead in before. He appreciated the sway of her bottom, thinking he’d have been okay with her wearing feminine attire if she’d asked him. But she hadn’t. In fact, aside from the brief meeting when they’d first been assigned to work together, he’d never seen her in a dress. And then she’d been wearing a knee-length black skirt. This thing…this thing barely brushed the middle of her thighs.

Then there were those heels.

Growing more than a little hot and bothered, Marc tugged at the neck of his T-shirt. The shoes added a good three inches to her five feet seven inches. That would bring the top of her head to his nose rather than his chin when they came face-to-face.

Mrs. Weber turned her head in his direction. Marc slumped in his seat, jamming his knees against the dashboard in the process. He cursed. But the words barely exited his mouth when Mel nearly toppled right off those high, sexy heels. He grinned, forgetting the pain shooting up his knees for a second. Now that was more like the Mel he knew and—

He bit back the word, an audible gulp filling the interior of the Jeep. What did he know about love? Hadn’t Mel told him during their first and only argument that he didn’t know diddly about love?

No, he didn’t, couldn’t love her. He just liked Mel’s sexy backside enough to think it worth protecting from the guy who’d already shot her once.

“Oh, yeah? Then tell me something, McCoy. Why is that damn engagement ring you’ve been carrying around for three months burning a hole in your pocket?”

ADVENTURE, FREEDOM and hot sex are overrated. Melanie squeezed her eyes shut and repeated the sentence slowly.

“Melanie, dear, there are guests present.”

She cracked her eyelids open to take in a generous view of Wilhemenia, who sat across from her in the dining area of the Bedford Inn. She wasn’t sure why, but lately everything her mother said, no matter how innocuous, got under her skin. She offered a patient smile. “Of course there are guests present. It’s my rehearsal dinner. I invited them, remember?”

She took in the gilded antique chairs, the crisp white damask tablecloths and the pretty flowered wallpaper, wondering exactly why the traditional event was called a rehearsal. It wasn’t as though she or Craig needed pointers on how to walk down the aisle. That was a no-brainer. She smiled at Craig’s father, who sat adjacent to her, and suppressed the urge to fidget, sure the unladylike move would elicit another public reprimand from her mother. Then realization settled in. The rehearsal part of it didn’t have so much to do with her and Craig. Rather it was a preview of what holidays would look like from here on out.

The tickle of panic that had been with her all day grew to a pang.

Melanie tried to shake the images that crowded her mind. But like an unwelcome visit from the ghost of Christmas future, she envisioned her mother perched on the edge of a couch making comments that always somehow seemed like criticisms about the Christmas tree and covertly trying to get at the nonexistent dust bunnies under the coffee table with her ever-present embroidered handkerchief.

And Craig’s parents? Melanie watched them as she chewed a bite of cold roast beef. Okay, so his father was a bit…overbearing. Suspicious almost. Which was only fair given the suddenness of the upcoming nuptials. Melanie’s cheeks heated. Craig’s mother, on the other hand, was almost effusively nice. Likely a result of spending the past forty years trying to compensate for her husband’s bad manners. And her desire for grandchildren from her only child. The roast beef stuck in Melanie’s throat. Doris was going to get one of those sooner than she expected.

Guilt ballooned to challenge the panic.

Craig’s mother smiled at her brightly. Melanie smiled back, the tongs of her fork screeching against china.

She purposely avoided looking at Wilhemenia.

“Scary, isn’t it?”

“Hmm?” She glanced at Craig, who sat next to her.

He leaned a little closer and lowered his voice so only she could hear. “The thought of these guys being in the same room for more than five minutes at a stretch.” He cleared his throat. “Just getting my own parents to spend that much time together is asking for trouble.”

His familiar grin eased her discomfort as he unwittingly fit his own welcome image in with the others stamped in her mind. It didn’t surprise her that he’d been thinking the same thing she had. Throughout their nearly lifelong friendship, Craig and she had always understood each other.

She watched as the grin vanished from his face. He tugged at his tie. She thought he must be feeling as awkward as she was. He leaned in her direction again. “When this infernal thing is over, we need to talk.”

“Sure, we can do that.” Melanie was almost relieved to focus on someone else. She had been so wrapped up in her own thoughts, she hadn’t considered that Craig might be as nervous about all this as she was. But the fact that his request was so very serious scared her. Was he having second thoughts?

She glanced up to find the table had gone suspiciously silent. “How about this heat wave?” she said, not comfortable with the way her mother was watching her.

Doris made some comparison between the heat and a tin roof that Melanie missed, but Craig’s burst of laughter made her sigh.

Why can’t you be more like Marc?

She jerked involuntarily at the unwelcome thought, sending her fork sailing through the air. She watched in horror as it spiraled above the table, prongs over stem, prongs over stem…. Finally it landed neatly in the middle of her mother’s plate, spearing her roasted potatoes.

“Melanie!”

Her cheeks felt on fire. Of all the places for the sucker to land. She tightly clasped her hands in her lap where they were unlikely to do more damage.

“Pardon me.”

“Are you all right?” Craig asked.

Melanie made a show of watching her mother pluck the foreign piece of silver from her food.

Look at him, she ordered herself. She did.

It wasn’t that Craig Gaffney wasn’t attractive. He was appealing in an all-American way that included surfer good looks, wide grin and a sharp mind for drugs. Pharmaceuticals, she amended. She thanked the waiter when he brought her another set of linen-wrapped silverware. Her mother cleared her throat. Melanie carefully freed the silver from the white linen and picked up the clean fork, though she didn’t think she could swallow another bite of food.

Craig had a great sense of humor. Did it really matter that he sometimes didn’t grasp a punch line? Or that his capacity for humor had somewhat dwindled since they announced their engagement?

She picked up her wineglass and took a hefty sip only to realize she shouldn’t be drinking. She forced herself to swallow, then coughed. Craig’s father narrowed his eyes, watching her far too closely.

“Wrong pipe,” she said quietly.

Her fiancé was also very comfortable to be around, she continued, reviewing her Pro-Marriage to Craig column. A quality that had instantly cemented their friendship nearly twenty-five years ago when they were in kindergarten. He didn’t judge her the way most people did then…and now. She glanced in her mother’s direction. Wilhemenia was frowning…again. No, Craig had always accepted her for who she was. Which made accepting his proposal all too easy when she’d spilled her troubles to him.

Craig leaned toward her, giving her a hefty whiff of his cologne. I can change that. He lowered his voice. “You don’t feel like you, well, you know, have to—”

“Throw up?” she said a little too loudly.

He didn’t laugh. Instantly, she realized why. No one else at the table knew she was pregnant.

She searched for a way to cover her mistake. “I think I’m suffering from a case of pre-wedding nerves. Otherwise, I’m fine. Really.” Which was true enough. She hadn’t suffered through a moment of morning sickness, and she was two weeks into her second trimester.

Pregnancy. Baby. Marriage.

Suddenly, Melanie did feel sick.

Sick with fear.

What did she know about being a mother?

“I never thought Melanie would be the first of my girls to marry,” Wilhemenia was saying to Doris. The comment caused Craig’s father’s gaze to sharpen. “Joanie was always the better bet.”

More wife material, Melanie silently added, wondering exactly where her sister was and why she wasn’t here defending her. And why was her mother discussing her as though she weren’t even at the table?

Craig’s mother tittered. “But you have to agree, she’ll make a handsome bride.”

Archie drained half his glass of beer. “Tell me again why you two are in such a rapid-fire hurry to have Pastor Pitts marry you?”

Melanie started. Craig squeezed her hand and said, “I think a twenty-five-year courtship is long enough, don’t you, Pumpkin?”

Pumpkin? Okay, so soon she’d look as though she’d swallowed a pumpkin, but still… “You did ask me to marry you on the playground, didn’t you, Pookems?”

He blinked at her.

Melanie was aghast at her behavior. She resisted propping her elbows on the table and covering her face as she considered exactly what was going to hit her and Craig once everyone found out she was pregnant. And learned just how far along she was. It wouldn’t take a Ph.D. to figure out the math. Craig had been not only out of town at the time of conception—he’d been out of the country. In New Guinea. Doing whatever pharmacists did in third-world countries. That wasn’t fair, because she knew exactly what he had been doing. While she…

Melanie finally gave in and rested her forehead against her hand, ignoring her mother’s stare.

God, she was going to be sick.

She pushed away from the table. Everyone grabbed their glasses and silverware to keep them from becoming deadly projectiles. Tears burned her eyes. Could she possibly make this dinner any worse?

“Excuse me. I’m going to…” What? Lock myself in a bathroom stall until the world makes sense? “Powder my nose.”

Her mother neatly placed her napkin next to her plate. “I’ll come with you.”

“No!”

The occupants of the head table stared at her in stunned silence, as did the half of the population of Bedford that had been invited to the dinner. Melanie tried to control her voice. “I mean, thank you, Mother, but I can see to this myself.” Her mother appeared ready to argue. “I’m fine. Really.”

Melanie shakily stood her ground. Surprisingly, it worked. Her mother sat down. “Very well, dear.”

Melanie looked for the tiny bag she’d brought with her, then saw it lying on the floor. She stopped herself from crawling under the table for it, smiled at everyone, then stepped as casually as she could toward the hallway.

She felt awful. Her stomach was upset, she felt bloated and her swollen feet ached. But it was more than that. She felt out of her element. Usually in command of every situation, she now felt inexplicably vulnerable. As soon as she was in the hall, she collapsed against the wall, blinking back hot tears. What was the matter with her? Hormones? Or did some part of her realize she was making the biggest mistake of her life?

Out of eyeshot of everyone in the dining room, she slowly slid her hands down her stomach, resting them over the exact spot where even now her child was growing within her.

Marc’s child.

She briefly closed her eyes, wondering again if not telling Marc about her condition was such a good idea.

She wiped the dampness from her cheeks. Too late now, wasn’t it?

Besides, Marc had made it clear he wasn’t interested in anything permanent. She reached down and slid her aching feet from the torturous contraptions Joanie called shoes and tried to work the heel off one. She couldn’t very well wear them if they were broken, could she? It wouldn’t budge. She started in the direction of the rest rooms before someone caught her trying to snap the heel off from the other one.

Inside the pink-and-gold rest room, she locked herself into a stall and sank down on the seat. She needed a few moments to herself. Bolstering minutes to take a deep breath and pull herself together. She had to. Not for her sake. For her baby’s. And, a guilty part reminded her, for Craig. He deserved better than a cranky bride who abandoned him to his mother-in-law.

Melanie swallowed hard, appreciating if not particularly overjoyed with the humor of the situation. After using up the better part of her life trying not to upset the delicate balance of her relationship with her mother, she’d spent the past eight years going through an odd, ambitious sort of rebellion. Not a planned one, by any means. But during her first year at college, all the emotion—all the hunger for adventure she had secretly craved—had just kind of gushed out, overwhelming her with its intensity. She’d been as unable to deny the change in herself as she would have been able to keep the sun from warming her skin.

Then, three months ago, she had paid for that “coming out” of sorts. But tucking away the thrill-seeking Melanie Weber was not an easy task.

The outer door opened. “Yoo-hoo.”

Melanie closed her eyes and clutched her shoes, half wishing she could climb on top of the toilet so her mother couldn’t see her stocking feet from under the door. Not that it mattered. She peeked through her eyelids to find her mother angling her head to peer through the thin crack between the hinges.

“I’m in here, Mother.”

“Oh!”

She had to give her mother credit. At least she attempted to act as though she hadn’t just been gaping into a closed stall.

She heard the door next to hers close. There was no rustling of clothes, meaning her mother wasn’t doing anything in her stall, either.

“Mother?”

“Yes, Melanie?”

“Why are you so afraid I won’t go through with…well, you know, with marrying Craig?”

There was silence, then the distinct sound of the toilet paper roll going around in circles. Melanie gave in to a sudden smile. At least her mother was attempting to make the situation look somehow normal.

“Well…I have to admit, I am a little concerned about your unusual behavior these past couple days.” Wilhemenia paused. “I don’t know, your behavior reminds me so much of that time you came home from university for the summer and neglected to tell me you’d changed your major from business to pre-law.” She made a quiet sound. “I won’t say a word about how your choice of careers after graduation disappointed me.”

You don’t have to say anything because you already have. Every time you want me to do something I’m against.

Melanie propped her shoes on a metal shelf then toyed with her own toilet paper. “And do you really think hovering over me like a—” jailer? “—like a mother hen is going to prevent that from happening?”

Another brief silence. “It’s not like that at all. I…I just want to be here if you need anyone to talk to.”

Melanie caught herself ripping the paper to shreds, the pieces floating to land around her feet.

“Melanie?”

God, she was crying again. If she kept up the waterworks, she’d end up floating down the aisle on a wave of her own tears.

Her mother spoke again. “Is there anything you want to talk about?”

Melanie opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She swiped at her damp cheeks.

Her mother cleared her throat. “If this is about that Marc character, you should just put him out of your mind right now.”

Melanie released a long, silent sigh, the words a vivid reminder of exactly why she couldn’t talk to her mother.

“He’s not the marrying kind, you know. More little boy than man. You’d only be miserable.”

Melanie nodded, hating her mother’s words but agreeing with them nonetheless. She was beginning to suspect that the only thing worse than being without Marc McCoy was being with him.

“Mom?” The shortening of the word mother should have sounded foreign, but oddly enough it didn’t. “Did you love Dad?”

For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why she had asked that. Her father had died when she was three, right after Joanie was born. What did ancient history—especially her mother’s ancient history—have to do with what was happening now?

“Never mind. Forget I just asked that question.” Melanie got up and collected her shoes.

“Melanie?”

She stopped midway toward the door. “Yes?”

“I…” Wilhemenia’s voice trailed off. “I just wanted to tell you that all I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy.”

Some of Melanie’s tension melted away. “Marrying Craig will make me happy, Mom. Thanks.” She gestured vaguely, though her mother couldn’t see her. “Thanks for putting everything back into perspective.”

Clutching her shoes in one hand, she opened the outer door. She skidded to a dead stop, finding herself nose-to-chin with a whole different barrier.

Marc McCoy.

Melanie’s breath gusted from her.

That can’t be right. This was her rehearsal dinner. Marc shouldn’t be anywhere near the inn or the rest rooms, much less her, right now. Yet there he was, big as life and twice as tantalizing. She stumbled backward.

“Wrong way. You want to come out.” Marc folded his fingers around her wrist and tugged her the rest of the way into the hall. Melanie’s knees felt about as substantial as baby food. She had no choice but to lean into him, causing a wave of longing to flow through her body. Suddenly, three months seemed like a very short period of time, indeed.

“What’s going—”

“Shh.” Marc laid a finger against her mouth. The simple action was maddeningly sensual. Her gaze was glued to his lips. But rather than kissing her, he set her purposefully away from him, confounding her even more. She moved her hand to the side of her throat, feeling her pulse thrumming wildly, her skin searingly hot.

“Interesting conversation you and your mother were having in there,” he said.

Melanie avoided his gaze. “You heard?”

She didn’t realize what he was doing until he slid a mop handle through the door handle, securely barring her mother inside the ladies’ room.

A hysterical laugh tickled Melanie’s throat. She couldn’t count the times she would have loved to lock her mother in a room. But wishful thinking was one thing; willful doing was quite another. She battled the irresponsible emotion.

“Let’s go,” Marc said, taking her hand.

Let’s go? Had he actually just said, “Let’s go”?

Melanie dug in her heels as best she could, considering she wore no shoes. Her stocking feet slid across the tile as Marc hauled her toward the parking lot. She swatted at him with the lethal shoes in her free hand.

“Hold on a minute, McCoy. Just where do you think you’re taking me?”

He stopped. “Why, out of here, of course.”

Melanie stared at the man who had the power to overturn every one of her well-laid plans. Her stomach pitched as she realized he intended to do just that.

Then he had the nerve to grin. Grin! Okay, he was rubbing the spot where her spike heel had nicely connected, but otherwise there was no evidence she had done anything more than blow a strand of his rich brown hair out of place.

“Hello, Mel. Miss me?”

Miss him? About as much as a bad sunburn. But her heart started to murmur something else. Melanie ignored it.

“What are you doing here? You weren’t on the guest list. I know because I drew it up.”

“I penciled myself in.” Marc’s reflective sunglasses prevented her from seeing his brown eyes, but his smile told her more than she wanted to know. His head tilted forward as he took a languid look over the tight-fitting silk of her dress, then up to where the sleek material hugged her waist and breasts. “Put on some weight, haven’t you, Mel?”

Scorching heat spilled over her cheeks again as she fought the desire to cover her stomach. He doesn’t know, she reminded herself.

“Looks good on you.”

While her physical dimensions had altered a bit since she last saw Marc, he hadn’t changed a bit. At six foot two, he was two hundred pounds of raw, muscled male. His military background was evident only in his tall posture. The easygoing grin and lazy casualness were pure Marc, as were his black T-shirt, jeans and the suede vest she knew concealed the 9mm revolver he always carried.

The mop handle rattled against the door. “Melanie?”

Oh, God. Mother. “You know, it’s not very nice to go around locking people in bathrooms.” Melanie tugged her hand, but he only tightened his hold. “Marc!”

“What?”

“Let me go.” She considered whacking him with her shoe again. He finally released her.

“Aw, now is that any way to treat an old boyfriend?”

A handsome grimace creased Marc’s face. A face she had tried to forget. A face chock-full of remarkable features she sometimes found herself wishing her child would inherit. Their child. Melanie swallowed hard.

“Ex-partner, then,” he said quietly. “Surely you have a few minutes for your ex-partner.”

Partners. Yes, they had been at least that. Although not in any permanent sense of the word, despite her present condition. Their partnership had been more professional than personal, and she had been dumb to forget that even for a second. As special agents for the Treasury Department’s Secret Service Division, they had worked together for two years. Up until Melanie decided it was time to get out.

Wrong choice of words. She hadn’t decided anything. The decision had been made for her. By a fellow agent who had turned his gun on her…and by a doctor’s innocent words.

“Ex-partners do not lie in wait when all they want to do is catch up,” she said softly. “What do you want?”

Marc had always been good at his job. When he wanted, he could be formidable. His physical appearance alone was enough to scare off any number of fanatics hoping for a shot at stardom by targeting a political candidate. But in his downtime, Melanie knew him to be an irresistibly handsome, rambunctious little boy who usually took nothing and no one seriously. Which gave her a definite advantage over him.

Melanie bit her lip. She didn’t want to think like an agent anymore. In fact, she hadn’t thought about her previous career for at least—well, half a day. Hooker had called her from jail that morning, after a two-month silence, despite court orders for him not to do so. Hearing his voice before she broke the connection had rattled her as much as his previous calls, not to mention the countless letters he’d sent her, which she had returned unopened. Out of the need to feel safe, she’d strapped her firearm on. An irrational act, considering Hooker was in custody.

“Yoo-hoo. Melanie, there’s something blocking the door. Could you open it, please?” There were rattling sounds as her mother tried to open it herself. “Melanie?”

Melanie swallowed hard, feeling Marc’s gaze hone in on her despite the sunglasses. She suppressed a shiver.

“You’re going to have to call off the wedding, Mel.”

She blinked. “What?” she whispered.

“You heard me. Tell the poor guy you agreed to marry you’re sorry, but there’s been a change in plans.”

Hysterical laughter again threatened to erupt from Melanie’s throat. She thought of all the plans that had been made, the guests who had been invited, and realized she’d drop everything in a heartbeat if she thought for a minute that Marc loved her. But he’d already made it clear he didn’t and never would.

No, Marc’s appearance was just one more unfair occurrence in a day chock-full of them.

“Not on your life.” She surveyed him. She noticed the way he stood, all too handsome and deceptively relaxed, then watched the casual way he shifted his weight toward the bathroom door. Melanie’s gaze slid to the barrier, and her heart gave a triple beat.

“Melanie? Who’s out there with you? Is it Craig? Maybe he can help—”

Melanie dove for the mop handle. Before she could pull it free, Marc’s arms snaked around her waist. She gasped and thrust her elbow into his stomach with all the force she could muster, given her restricting apparel. She met with what felt like reinforced steel. While she’d gone a little soft around the middle, he’d gotten more than a bit harder.

“Come on, Mel, don’t make me go to Plan B,” he murmured.

Plan B? What was he talking about? And why did dread and anticipation spread through her at the humor in his voice? She stilled. “You can let go of me now,” she said with forced calm.

“Why? So you can try to let your mother out again? No way. I’ve been trying to get you alone all afternoon. Now that I’ve got you, I intend to do what I came for.” His breath stirred the hair over her right ear. She was powerless to stop an obvious shiver. “You are happy to see me.”

She tried to loosen his grasp, but again he tightened it.

“Come on, Marc, where am I going to go?” She wriggled against him, hating that he could read her reaction so well.

“Mmm.”

Melanie’s knees threatened to give out at the sound of his soft hum. His palms had flattened against her hips and now nudged up toward the underside of her breasts. She gasped, every traitorous part of her body craving that all too familiar touch.

Marc buried his face in her hair and breathed deeply. “God, I forgot what it was like to touch you.”

Need grew within her again, stronger this time. “Please let me go.” She hated the helpless quality of her voice and tried to insert some metal. “Or else I’ll do something you won’t find very pleasant.”

His chuckle stirred more than her hair. “You always were one for idle threats, weren’t you?”

Somehow she found the energy to do what she had to. Curling her fingers around one of the shoes, she swung it backward, heel first, hitting her intended target. Air rushed from Marc’s body. He stumbled back, releasing his hold on her and reaching for his crotch.

“How idle was that?” Melanie whispered. Clutching her shoes in one hand, she reached for the mop handle with her other.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Marc said.

Melanie’s stomach gave a small flip as she struggled to open the bathroom door. She nearly had the mop free when Marc drove it home.

“Why did I think this would be easy?” he murmured.

The world tilted beneath Melanie. By the time everything stopped spinning, she found herself draped over one of Marc’s wide shoulders, her shoes bouncing off the tiled floor. Her eyes were parallel with his jeans-clad rear end. And oh, what a rear end it was, too. Too bad she wasn’t in the mood to enjoy it at the moment.

What was she thinking? She didn’t want to enjoy anything about Marc. Not now. Not ever again. In two days she was getting married. And not to Marc. Because Marc had a bad habit of disappearing when she needed him most.

“I can’t believe you just did that!”

“Yeah, well, believe it,” he murmured. “I don’t care what they say, sometimes drastic measures are necessary.”

They? Who were they? God, she wished some of this mad situation would start making sense.

Marc suddenly stilled. “Everything’s fine, sir. You just go on about your business.”

Melanie peeked around his hips to see her uncle Fred worrying his tie in his hands. Bedford’s most prominent banker scurried toward the men’s room across the hall, not even attempting to help. Melanie suddenly wanted to cry.

A tentative knocking sounded on the ladies’ room door. “Melanie? Are you all right?”

Drawing in a fortifying breath, she said, “I’m fine, Mother.” Aside from feeling like a sack of flour. “Feel better now?” she asked him quietly.

“Much, thank you,” Marc said lightly. “Now, tell me how I go about making you see reason.”

“Reason? I’m not the one who just threw someone over her shoulder.”

She felt a hot hand on her ankle. She fidgeted and tried to see what he was doing.

“Hold still, or you’ll find a hand right where I’m sure you least want it,” he said. “Tell me, Mel, do you still take that neat little nickel-plated .25 everywhere you go?”

Melanie’s eyes widened as he cupped her right heel, then slowly slid his fingers up her calf, tickling the back of her knee. “Marc! Get your hands off me, you overgrown—”

His probing ceased just short of her panties. He stood silently for long moments. Melanie didn’t dare breathe. Awareness tingled everywhere his hand had touched, and even now neglected parts of herself pleaded for the pleasure they knew Marc could bring.

“Satisfied?” she croaked.

“Not nearly,” Marc said quietly. He moved his hand across her backside, eliciting a gasp, then slowly began down her other leg. “There she blows,” he said, pulling her .25 free from her thigh holster.

Melanie groaned and pushed against him in exasperation.

“Tell me, Mel, does your fiancé know what you hide under your skirt?” he asked, not removing his hand. Instead, he caressed the spot around her empty holster with feathery, fiery flicks of his callused thumb. She wriggled against him, threatening to topple herself to the floor. The way she figured it, anything was better than subjecting herself to Marc’s all-knowing touch.

“Put me down.”

His hand abruptly disappeared from her leg.

Rather than relief, Melanie felt nothing but disappointment. She held on for dear life as he bent to pick up her shoes.

“I will,” he said, the lazy teasing back in his voice. “Eventually.”