Rescued in a Wedding Dress (2 page)

Of course, this handsome devil appearing without warning in her boss’s office on a Monday morning was a test, just like the dress. It was a test of her commit
ment to the new and independent Molly Michaels, a test of her ability to separate her imaginings from reality.

Look at her deciding he was the one you would follow in a catastrophe when she knew absolutely nothing about him except that he had an exceedingly handsome face. Molly reminded herself, extra sternly, that all the catastrophes in her life had been of her own making. Besides, with the kind of image he portrayed—all easy self-assurance and leashed sexuality—probably more than one woman had built fantasies of hope and forever around him. He was of an age where if he wanted to be taken he would be. And if his ring finger—and the expression on his face as he looked at the dress—was any indication, he was not!

“Sorry,” Molly said to Miss Viv, “I thought you were alone.” She gave a quick, curt nod of acknowledgment to the stranger, making sure to strip any remaining
hopeless dreamer
from herself before she met his eyes.

“But, Molly, when I rang your office, I wanted you to come, and you must have wanted something?” Miss Viv asked her before she made her escape.

Usually imaginative, Molly drew a blank for explaining away her attire and she could think of not a single reason to be here except the truth.

“The zip is stuck, but I can manage. Really. Excuse me.” She was trying to slide back out the door when his eyes narrowed on her.

“Is your hair caught in the dress?”

His voice was at least as sensual as the silk where the dress caressed her naked skin.

Molly could feel her cheeks turning a shade of red that was probably going to put her hair to shame.

“A little,” she said proudly. “It’s nothing. Excuse
me.” She tried to lift her chin, to prove how
nothing
it was, but her hair was caught hard enough that she could not, and she also could not prevent a little wince of pain as the movement caused the stuck hair to yank at her tender scalp.

“That looks painful,” he said quietly, getting to his feet with that casual grace one associated with athletes, the kind of ease of movement that disguised how swift they really were. But he was swift, because he was standing in front of her before she could gather her wits and make good her escape.

The smart thing to do would be to step back as he took that final step toward her. But she was astounded to find herself rooted to the spot, paralyzed, helpless to move away from him.

The world went very still. It seemed as if all the busy activity on the street outside ceased, the noises faded, the background and Miss Viv melted into a fuzzy kaleidoscope as the stranger leaned in close to her.

With the ease born of supreme confidence in himself—as if he performed this kind of rescue on a daily basis—he lifted the pressure of the dress up off her shoulder with one hand, and with the other, he carefully unwound her hair from the pearls they were caught in.

Given that outlaw remoteness in his eyes, he was unbelievably gentle, his fingers unhurried in her hair.

Molly’s awareness of him was nothing less than shocking, his nearness tingling along her skin, his touch melting parts of her that she had hoped were turned to ice permanently.

The moment took way too long. And not nearly long enough. His concentration was complete, the intensity of his steely-gray gaze as he dealt with her tangled hair,
his unsettling nearness, the graze of his fingers along her neck, stealing her breath.

At least Molly didn’t feel as if she was breathing, but then she realized she must, indeed, be pulling air in and out, because she could smell him.

His scent was wonderful, bitingly masculine, good aftershave, expensive soap, freshly pressed linen.

Molly gazed helplessly into his face, unwillingly marveling at the chiseled perfection of his features, the intrigue of the faint crook in his nose, the white line of that scar, the brilliance of his eyes. He, however, was pure focus, as if the only task that mattered to him was freeing her hair from the remaining pearl that held it captive.

Apparently he was not marveling at the circumstances that had brought his hands to her hair and the soft place on her neck just below her ear, apparently he was not swamped by their scents mingling nor was he fighting a deep awareness that a move of a mere half inch would bring them together, full frontal contact, the swell of her breast pressing into the hard line of his chest…

The dress, suddenly freed, fell back onto her shoulder. He actually smiled then, the faintest quirk of a gorgeous mouth, and she felt herself floundering in the depths of stormy sea eyes, the chill gray suddenly illuminated by the sun.

“Did you say the zipper was stuck as well?” he asked.

Oh, God. Had she said that? She could not prolong this encounter! It was much more of a test of the new confidently-sitting-at-the-café-alone her than she was ready for!

But mutely, caught in a spell, she turned her back to him and stood stock-still, waiting. She shivered at the thought of a wedding night, what this moment meant,
and at the same time that unwanted thought seeped warmly into her brain, he touched her.

She felt the slight brush of his hand, again, on delicate skin, this time at the back of her neck. Her senses were so intensely engaged that she heard the faint pop of the hook parting from the eye. She registered the feel of his hand, felt astounded by the hard, unyielding texture of his skin.

He looked like he was pure business, a banker maybe, a wealthy benefactor, but there was nothing soft about his hand that suggested a life behind a desk, his tools a phone and a computer. For some reason it occurred to her that hands like that belonged to people who handled ropes…range riders, mountain climbers. Pirates. Ah, yes, pirates with all that mysterious charm.

He dispensed with the hook at the top of the zipper in a split second, a man who had dispensed with such delicate items many times? And then he paused, apparently realizing the height of the zipper would make it nearly impossible for her to manage the rest by herself—she hoped he would not consider how much determination it had taken her to get it up in the first place—and then slid the zipper down a sensuous inch or two.

With that same altered sense of alertness Molly could feel cool air on that small area of her newly exposed naked back, and then, though she did not glance back, she could feel heat. His gaze? Her own jumbled thoughts?

Molly fought the chicken in her that just wanted to bolt out the open door. Instead, she turned and faced him.

“There you go,” he said mildly, rocking back on his heels. The heat must have come from her own badly rattled thoughts, because his eyes were cool, something veiled in their intriguing silver depths.

“Thank you,” she said, struggling to keep her voice deliberately controlled to match the look in his eyes. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”

“No, no, Molly,” Miss Viv said, and it was a mark of the intensity of her encounter with him that Molly was actually jarred by the fact Miss Viv was still in the room. “I called your office to invite you to meet Mr. Whitford. I’m going on an unscheduled holiday, and Mr. Whitford is taking the helm.”

Molly felt the shock of Miss Viv’s announcement ripple down a spine that had already been thoroughly shocked this morning. But even as she dealt with the shock, part of her mused with annoying dreaminess,
helm. Pirate. I knew it.

“Houston Whitford, Molly Michaels,” Miss Viv said. The introduction seemed ridiculously formal considering the rather astounding sense of intimacy Molly had just felt under his touch.

Still, now she felt duty-bound to extend her hand, and be touched again, even as she was digesting the fact
he
was in charge. How could that be? Molly was always in charge when Miss Viv was away!

And Miss Viv was going on a holiday, but hadn’t told anyone? Second Chances was a family and far better than Molly’s family of origin at providing a place that was safe, and supportive, and rarely unpredictable.

“There are going to be a few changes,” Miss Viv said, cheerfully, as if Molly’s nice safe world was in no way being threatened. “And no one is more qualified to make them than Mr. Whitford. I expect Second Chances is going to blossom, absolutely go to the next level, under his leadership. I’m thrilled to pass the reins to him.”

But Molly felt the threat of her whole world shifting.
Miss Viv was stepping down? The feeling only intensified when Houston Whitford’s hand—warm, strong, cool—touched her skin again. His hand enveloped her hand and despite the pure professionalism of his shake, the hardness of his grip told her something, as did the glittering silver light in his eyes.

He was not the usual kind of person who worked an ill-paying job at a charity. His suit said something his hands did not: that he was used to a world of higher finances, higher-power, higher-tech.

The only thing that was higher at Second Chances was the satisfaction, the feeling of changing the world for the better.

The cost of his suit probably added up to their operating budget for a month! He didn’t fit the cozy, casual and rather shabby atmosphere of the Second Chances office at all.

She felt the unmistakable tingle of pure danger all along her spine. There was something about Houston Whitford that was not adding up. Change followed a man like that as surely as pounding rain followed the thunderstorm.

Molly,
her father had said, on the eve of leaving their family home forever,
there is going to be a change.

And she had been allergic to that very thing ever since! She wanted her world to be safe and unchanging and that view had intensified after she had flirted with a major life change in the form of Chuck. Since then Second Chances had become more her safe haven than ever.

“What kind of changes?” she asked Miss Viv now, failing to keep a certain trepidation from entering her voice.

“Mr. Whitford will be happy to brief you, um, after
you’ve changed into something more appropriate,” Miss Viv said, and then glanced at her watch. “Oh, my! I do have a plane to catch. I’m going to a spa in Arizona, my dear.”

“You’re going to a spa in Arizona, and you didn’t tell anyone?” It seemed unimaginable. That kind of vacation usually should have entailed at least a swimsuit shopping excursion together!

“The opportunity came up rather suddenly,” Miss Viv said, unapologetically thrilled. “A bolt from the blue, an unexpected gift from an old friend.”

Molly tried to feel delighted for her. No one deserved a wonderful surprise more than her boss.

“For how long?” she asked.

But the shameful truth was Molly did not feel delighted at her boss’s good fortune.
Sudden change.
Molly hated that kind more than the regular variety.

“Two weeks,” Miss Viv said with a sigh of anticipated delight.

Two weeks?
Molly wanted to shout.
That was ridiculous. People went to spas for a few hours, maybe a few days, never two weeks!

“But when you come back, everything will be back to normal?” Molly pressed.

Miss Viv laughed. “Oh, sweetie,” she said. “What is normal? A setting on a clothes dryer as far as I’m concerned.”

Molly stared at her boss. What was normal? Not something to be joked about! It was what Molly had never had. She’d never had a normal family. Her engagement had certainly not been normal. It felt as if she had spent a good deal of her life searching for it, and coming up short. Even her pets were never normal.

Molly’s life had been populated with the needy kind of animal that no one else wanted. A dog with three legs, a cat with no meow. Her current resident was a bald budgie, his scrawny body devoid of feathers.

“I’ve been thinking of retiring,” Miss Viv shocked Molly further by saying. “So, who knows? After the two weeks is up, we’ll just play it by ear.”

Molly wanted to protest that she didn’t like playing it by ear. She liked plans and schedules, calendars that were marked for months in advance.

If Miss Viv retired, would Houston Whitford be in charge forever?

She could not think of a way of asking that did not show her dread at the prospect!

Besides, there is no
forever,
Molly reminded herself. That was precisely why she had put on this dress. To debunk
forever
myths.

She particularly did not want to entertain
that
word anywhere near the vicinity of him, a man whose faintest touch could make a woman’s vows of self-reliance disintegrate like foundations crumbling at the first tremor of the coming quake.

T
HE
bride flounced out of the room, and unbidden, words crowded into Houston’s brain.

And then they lived happily ever after.

He scoffed at himself, and the words. Yes, it was true that a dress like that, filled out by a girl like Molly Michaels, represented a fairy tale.

But the fact she was stuck in it, the zipper stubborn, her hair wound painfully around the pearls, represented more the reality: relationships of the romantic variety were sticky, complicated,
entrapping.

Besides, a man didn’t come from the place Houston Whitford had come from and believe in fairy tales. He believed in his own strength, his own ability to survive. He saw the cynicism with which he had regarded that dress as a
gift.

In fact, the unexpected appearance of one of the Second Chances employees in full wedding regalia only confirmed what several weeks of research had already told him.

Second Chances reminded Houston, painfully, of an old-style family operated bookstore. Everyone was drawn to the warmth of it, it was always crowded and
full of laughter and discussion, but when it came time to actually buy a book it could not compete with the online giants, streamlined, efficient, economical. Just how Houston liked his businesses, running like well-oiled machines. No brides, no ancient, adorable little old ladies at the helm.

He fought an urge to press the scar over the old break on the bridge of his nose. It ached unbearably lately. Had it ached ever since, in a rare moment of weakness, he had agreed to help out here? This wasn’t his kind of job. He dealt in reality, in cold, hard fact. Where did a poorly run charity, with brides in the hallways and octogenarians behind the desks, fit into his world?

“And that was our Molly,” Miss Viv said brightly. “Isn’t she lovely?”

“Lovely,” Houston managed. He recalled part two of his mission here.

Miss Viv had confessed to him she was thinking of retiring. She loved Molly and considered her her natural successor. But she was a little worried. She wanted his opinion on whether Molly was too soft-hearted for the job.

“Is she getting ready for her wedding?” On the basis of their very brief encounter, Molly Michaels seemed the kind of woman that a man who was not cynical and jaded like him—a man who believed in fairy tales, love ever after, family—would snatch up.

He didn’t even like the direction of those thoughts. The wedding dress should only be viewed in the context of the job he had to do here. What was Miss Michaels doing getting ready for her wedding at work? How did that reflect on a future for her in management?

The job he hadn’t wanted was getting less attractive by the second. A demand of complete professionalism
was high on his list of fixes for the ailing companies he put back on the track to success.

“She’s not getting ready for her wedding,” Miss Viv said with a sympathetic sigh. “The exact opposite, I’m afraid. Her engagement broke off before they even set a date. A blessing, though the poor child did not see it that way at the time. She’s not been herself since it happened.”

At this point, with anyone else, he would make it clear, right now, he didn’t want to know a single thing about Molly Michaels’s personal life. But this job was different than any he’d ever taken on before. And this was Miss Viv.

Everybody was a
poor child
to her. His need to analyze, to have answers to puzzles, surprised him by not filing this poor child information under strictly personal, none of his business, nothing to do with the job at hand. Instead, he allowed the question to form in his mind.
If a man believed in the fairy tale enough to ask someone like Molly Michaels to be his wife, why would he then be fool enough to let her get away?

Because the truth was
lovely
was an unfortunate understatement, and would have been even before he had made the mistake of making the bridal vision somehow
real
by touching the heated silk of Molly’s skin, the coiled copper of her hair.

Molly’s eyes, the set of her sensuous mouth and the corkscrewing hair, not to mention the curves of a slender figure, had not really said
lovely
to him. Despite the fairy tale of the dress the word that had come to mind first was
sexy.

Was that what had made him get up from his chair? Not really to rescue her from her obvious discomfort, but to see what was true about her? Sexy? Or innocent?

He was no Boy Scout, after all, not given to good deeds, which was another reason he should not be here at Second Chances.

Still, was his need to know that about Molly Michaels personal or professional? He had a feeling at Second Chances those lines had always been allowed to blur.
Note to self,
he thought wryly,
no more rescuing of damsels in distress.

Though, really that was why he was here, even if Miss Viv was obviously way too old to qualify as a damsel.

Houston Whitford was CEO of Precision Solutions, a company that specialized in rescuing ailing businesses, generally large corporations, from the brink of disaster. His position used all of his strengths, amongst which he counted a formidable ability to not be swayed be emotion.

He was driven, ambitious and on occasion, unapologetically ruthless, and he could see that was a terrible fit with Second Chances. He didn’t really even
like
charities, cynically feeling that for one person to receive the charity of another was usually as humiliating for the person in need as it was satisfying for the one who could give.

But the woman who sat in front of him was a reminder that no man had himself alone to thank for his circumstances.

Houston Whitford was here, at Second Chances, because he owed a debt.

And he was here for the same reason he suspected most men blamed when they found themselves in untenable situations.

His mother, Beebee, had suggested he help out.
So, it had already been personal, some line blurred, even before the bride had showed up.

Beebee was Houston’s foster mother, but it was a distinction he rarely made. She had been there when his real mother—as always—had not. Beebee had been the first person he had ever felt genuinely cared about him and what happened to him. He owed his life as it was to her
charity,
and he knew it.

Miss Viv was Beebee’s oldest friend, part of that remarkable group of women who had circled around a tough boy from a terrible neighborhood and seen something in him—
believed in something in him
—that no one had ever seen or believed in before.

You didn’t say
sorry, too busy
in the face of that kind of a debt.

It had started a month ago, when he’d hosted a surprise birthday celebration for Beebee. The catered high tea had been held at his newly acquired “Gold Coast” condominium with its coveted Fifth Avenue address, facing Central Park.

Beebee and “the girls” had been all sparkle then, oohing over the white-gloved doorman, the luxury of the lobby, the elevators, the hallways. Inside the sleek interior of his eleven-million-dollar apartment, no detail had gone unremarked, from tiger wood hardwood to walnut moldings to the spectacular views.

But as the party had progressed, Miss Viv had brought up Second Chances, the charity she headed, and that all “the girls” supported. She confessed it was having troubles, financial and otherwise, that baffled her.

“Oh, Houston will help, won’t you, dear?” his foster mom had said.

And all eyes had been on him, and in a blink he wasn’t a successful entrepreneur who had proven himself over and over again, but that young ruffian,
poor child,
rescued from mean streets and a meaner life, desperately trying to live up to their expectation that he was really a good person under that tough exterior.

But after that initial weakness that had made him say yes, he’d laid down the law. If they wanted his help, they would have to accept the fact he was doing it his way: no interfering from them, no bringing him home-baked goodies to try to sway him into keeping things the very same way that had gotten the charity into trouble in the first place and
especially
no references to his past.

Of course, they hadn’t understood that.

“But why ever not? We’re all so proud of you, Houston!”

But Beebee and her friends weren’t just proud of him because of who he was now. No, they were the ones who held in their memories that measuring stick of who he had once been…a troubled fourteen-year-old kid from the tenements of Clinton, a neighborhood that had once been called Hell’s Kitchen.

They saw it as something to be admired that he had overcome his circumstances—his father being sent to prison, his mother abandoning him—but he just saw it as something left behind him.

Beebee and Miss Viv dispensed charity as easily as they breathed, but as well-meaning as they were, they had no idea how shaming that part of his life, when he had been so needy and so vulnerable, was to him. He did not excuse himself because he had only been fourteen.

He still felt, sometimes, that he was their
poor child,
an object of pity that they had rescued and nursed back to wellness like a near-drowned kitten.

Was he insecure about his past? No, he didn’t think so. But it was over and it was done. He’d always had an
ability to place his life in neat compartments; his need for order did not allow for overlapping.

But suddenly, he thought of that letter that had arrived at his home last week, a cheap envelope and a prison postmark lying on a solid mahogany desk surely a sign that a man could not always keep his worlds from overlapping.

Houston had told no one about the arrival of that letter, not even the only other person who knew his complete history, Beebee.

Was that part of why he was sending her away with Miss Viv? Not just because he knew they could probably not resist sharing the titillating details of his past with anyone who would listen, including all the employees here at Second Chances, but because he didn’t want to talk to Beebee about that letter? The thought of that letter, plus being here at Second Chances, made him feel what Houston Whitford hated feeling the most:
vulnerable,
as if that most precious of commodities,
control,
was slipping away from him.

And there was something about this place—the nature of charity, Miss Viv and his history, Molly, sweetly sensual in virginal white—that made him feel, not as if his guard was being let down, but that his bastions were being stormed.

He was a proud man. That pride had carried him through times when all else had failed. He didn’t want Miss Viv’s personal information about him undermining his authority to rescue her charity, changing the way people he had to deal with looked at him.

And when people found out his story, it did change the way they looked at him.

He could tell, for instance, Molly Michaels would
fall solidly in the soft-hearted category. She’d love an opportunity to treat him like a kitten who had nearly drowned! And he wasn’t having it.

“Let’s discuss Molly Michaels for a minute,” he said carefully. “I’d like to have a little talk with her about—”

“Don’t be hard on her!” Miss Viv cried. “Try not to judge Molly for the outfit. She was just being playful. It was actually good to see that side of her again,” Miss Viv said.

Playful.
He liked playful. In the bedroom.

In the office? Not so much.

“Please don’t hurt her feelings,” Miss Viv warned him.

Hurt her feelings? What did feelings have to do with running an organization, with expecting the best from it, with demanding excellence?

He did give in to the little impulse, then, to press the ridge of the scar along his nose.

Miss Viv’s voice lowered into her
juicy-secret
tone. “The broken engagement? She’s had a heartbreak recently.”

It confirmed his wisdom in sending Miss Viv away for the duration of the Second Chances business makeover. He didn’t want to know this,
at all.
He pressed harder. The ache along the scar line did not diffuse.

“A cad, I’m afraid,” Miss Viv said, missing his every signal that he did not want to be any part of the office stories, the gossip, the personalities.

Despite his desire to remove himself from it, Houston felt a sudden and completely unexpected pulsing of fury.

Not for the circumstances he found himself in, certainly not at Miss Viv, who could not help herself. No, Houston felt an undisciplined desire to hurt a man he did not know for breaking the heart of a woman he also
did not know—save for the exquisite tenderness of her neck beneath his fingertips.

That flash of unreasonable fury, an undisciplined reaction, was gone nearly as soon as it happened, but it still served to remind him that things did not always stay in their neat compartments. He had not overcome what he had come from as completely as everyone believed.

He came from a world where violence was the default reaction.

Houston knew if he was to let down his guard, lose his legendary sense of control for a second—one second—he could become that man his father had been, his carefully constructed world blown apart by forces—fury, passion—that could rise up in a storm that he had no hope of taming.

It was the reason Houston did not even allow himself to contemplate his life in the context of fairy tales represented by a young woman in a bridal gown. There was no room for a compartment like that in the neat, tidy box that made up his life.

There was a large compartment for work, an almost equally large one for his one and only passion, the combat sport of boxing.

There were smaller compartments for his social obligations, for Beebee, for occasional and casual relationships with the rare member of the opposite sex who shared his aversion for commitment. There were some compartments that were nailed shut.

But now the past was not staying in the neat compartment system. The compartment that held Houston’s father
and
his mother was being pried up, despite the nails trying to hold it firmly shut.