A Promise at Bluebell Hill (17 page)

Mrs. Palmer narrowed her eyes, as if wishing she hadn't needed to invite her nemesis. “They're not just covering it up for a future excavation, like they did in Snowmass Village. This site will be destroyed by the construction. Science is important, Eileen. Or maybe you think dinosaurs are a lie.”

“Okay, okay, that's enough,” Donna said, stepping into the middle of the room, hands upraised. “This is my baby's wedding shower. I—­I can't believe she's marrying into the most powerful family in the country. Honey, how often can I visit the White House?”

Everyone laughed but Mrs. Sweet. Monica glanced between her and the widows—­and then saw Missy's suspicious gaze. Things were just going to get more complicated the next few days . . .

But not as complicated as Travis, who'd promised to drop by tonight. Monica shivered and looked away from her family and friends. He was her private fantasy come to life, and she wasn't going to think beyond this night. There would be no promises between them, nothing permanent, no regrets.

Why did she keep telling herself this? She'd always known their relationship was just for fun even if he was surprisingly romantic beneath that stoic exterior. She couldn't have more.

 

Chapter Sixteen

T
ravis watched the flower shop from the top floor of the Hotel Colorado, and when the apartment lights went on, he tensed with awareness and excitement, putting a hand on the glass. He saw Monica then, crossing in front of the window, but she didn't close the curtains. In fact, he thought she glanced at the hotel, but he couldn't be certain. Only one way to find out. He headed for the door.

Royce looked up from his newspaper. “Where you goin'?”

“Out.”

“You've spent more time lookin' out the window tonight than anythin' else,” he said with a smirk. “And you didn't change into sweats.”

Travis put his hand on the doorknob. “Your point?”

“I know whose apartment you can see from here. Bet you're discussin' all kinds of protocol for the president's visit with the flower-­shop chick.”

Travis smiled and felt like a teenager as he said, “Wouldn't you like to know.”

“Get on out of here before my jealousy gets the best of me.” Royce grinned even as he sighed his disappointment.

Travis practically whistled as he crossed Main Street, the lights of Valentine Valley twinkling all around him. For a small town, there were always ­people on the street, keeping the restaurants and bars busy. The neon sign of the Royal Theater blinked in three-­story glory, advertising a sudden new festival of patriotic movies from
The Sands of Iwo Jima
to
Saving Private Ryan
to
Independence Day
.

He received more than one curious glance, but ­people were already used to—­and bored by—­the Secret Ser­vice and were itching for the real show, the president.

When he reached the alley and Monica's door, he pressed the bell and waited.

She opened it, wearing a smile, and he was surprised at the warmth of gladness that spread through him just being with her. Damn, he had it bad. And he only had a few days left. Once the president arrived, he'd be lucky even to see Monica in the street. And he wanted to see her; he physically ached for it, had had a hard time putting aside his thoughts of the coming evening while he worked. Memories of her amidst bluebells haunted him.

“Thought you military types went to bed early and rose with the dawn,” she teased. “Isn't ten o'clock past your bedtime?”

“I make due on less sleep than you'd think.”

She inhaled, her smile faded, and he thought her dark eyes smoldered with awareness.

“Is that a hint?” she asked.

“Do you want it to be?” With him at the bottom of the stairs, she was a little above him in height, and he wanted to take her small waist in his hands and pull her to him. With a husky voice, he asked, “Don't answer that. We have time. May I come in?”

She stepped back and gestured up the stairs. “Of course.”

He allowed her to precede him up the stairs, and when the little hallway widened into her living room, he saw that she'd closed the curtains. Good. Not that he thought Royce would spy on them . . .

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“A beer would be fine if you have it.”

While she was in the kitchen, he stood at her wall shelves, looking at her collection of books and plants.

He turned when she entered to hand him a bottle of beer and found himself admiring the tight skirt she wore and the silky top with ruffles over her breasts. He forced his gaze upward. “How was the shower?”

She sipped her beer, then smiled. “Good. Ashley received some lovely presents. But she did mention this presidential staffer who's been bothering her.”

He frowned. “She mentioned her to me, too. I had my own little run-­in with Ms. Weichert, and more will have to be said. We need to keep open exits at the rear of every venue the president is at, but she wanted some big wall of flowers at the back of the church altar, and I had to veto it.”

Monica put a hand to her chest and gasped. “My wall of flowers?”

He looked at her until she grinned.

“Okay, the wall of flowers wasn't my idea although I had a great time designing it. I didn't even know where Ashley planned to use it.”

“Ashley will be more reasonable than this Weichert woman about where to put it. I'll deal with her.”

“Good. Every bride wants to enjoy her wedding. There's always stress, or so I'm told, but it should be the good kind, not the unnecessary kind. When Emily got married last year, it was fun and exciting, and the best weekend of her life. I want that for Ashley, too. It's hard enough to deal with the whole world being interested in your wedding—­she shouldn't have this sort of stuff bothering her.”

Travis nodded, but he was having a difficult time thinking about the wedding when he was increasingly preoccupied with Monica. He wondered about the softness of her clothes—­and how difficult they'd be to remove. He wanted to taste the skin beneath her jaw, lick a line between her breasts. He took another swig of beer, then set it down.

He saw her eyes go wide and dreamy as she gazed into his. He didn't know what he was silently communicating, but she was getting the idea. He shrugged off his windbreaker and tossed it onto a chair.

He saw her register his holster and SIG Sauer on the right side of his belt. She lived in a ranching community, so he thought she might be familiar with guns. She didn't say anything, just watched him slide his belt out from the holster and set the weapon aside on her bookshelf.

She put down her beer. “Stop what you're doing.”

He did, feeling frozen. Hoarsely, he said, “Tell me to go, if you want me to, Monica, but do it soon. After today at Bluebell Hill, I could barely function for thinking of you.”

She gave a soft laugh. “I don't want you to go. I just don't want you to hurry through the fun parts.”

She put her hands on his chest, and just the touch of her made him groan.

He leaned in and spoke against the curls near her ear. “I want you, Monica.”

Her hands trembled against him.

“I want you, too. But let me help.”

Monica felt as if she had a great beast under her control, newly free of his cage and practically quivering to put his hands and mouth on her.

And, God, it felt wonderful to be so desired. She skimmed the silky feel of his open-­necked shirt, unbuttoning it slowly, letting her fingers drift inside and tease his hot skin. He was breathing heavily, his face an impassive mask but for his eyes, which were bright and hot as a sapphire newly revealed to the light. They stared at her as if she were the only thing in his world, the only thing that mattered.

Right now, she reminded herself; she was the only thing that mattered
right now.

But she didn't care about tomorrow, about the end of the week when he'd leave her behind, when she'd have to pretend he'd meant nothing but a fun fling. Her world had narrowed to just him tonight, and she parted his shirt to explore her prize. He had auburn hair scattered across his white chest, and her hand looked dark against him. She gave another shiver at the very differentness of him. And she liked those differences.

She slid her hands across his shoulders, parting the shirt and letting it drop down his back. On his right upper arm, he sported a single tattoo she recognized as the Marine Corps emblem of eagle, globe, and anchor.

She leaned in to kiss it. “Did you have a wild night and do this? I can't picture it.”

He let out his breath, still watching every move she made. “No, my whole platoon had them done before we shipped out.”

“Ah, makes sense, deliberate and thought-­out. That's what you're all about.”

“Not tonight,” he said, capturing her upper arms. “I can't think through what this'll mean tomorrow.”

She met his hot gaze. “But you thought about it all day, just like I did.”

He gave a single nod, then pulled her against him and kissed her.

He must have been showing restraint in their earlier kisses because he let go and took her mouth with wild passion, as if now that he knew they wouldn't stop, he could show what he wanted. And oh, she felt amazed by the power and purpose, by the way his tongue explored her mouth and mimicked sex. If he hadn't been holding her up, she might have just fallen to the floor, pulling him down on top of her.

She put her hands on his pants and managed to undo the fastener even though his kisses seemed to steal away her mind. She let her hand cup the length of his erection through his clothes, and she felt the ripple of his shudder. But he stopped her before she could pull his zipper down.

“My turn,” he whispered. “I want to see you. But how the hell do you take this shirt off?”

Smiling, she turned around and pointed to the buttons at the back of her neck. She leaned back against him, letting his hips press in a long, slow motion against her backside even as she felt those long fingers slowly releasing her top. He pulled it off over her head, and, from behind, his hands came up to cup her breasts, covered only in a lacy bra. She threw her head back with a cry, feeling his teeth nibble at her shoulder, his fingers playing with her nipples, his erection urgent against her. Between her legs, she felt hot and full and aching for him.

As if he read her mind, he slid his hands down her torso to her hips, then slowly tugged her skirt upward, his thumbs riding up her stomach. He didn't totally remove her skirt, just reached beneath and pulled her panties down swiftly, his breathing hoarse in her ear before he bent and let them drop to the carpet.

And then he put his big hand flat on her stomach and just held her back against him, moving slowly, sensuously, sliding until she thought she'd go mad if he didn't do something more.

“Travis—­” His name sounded broken on her lips. “Please.”

And then his hand slid down, cupping her, his long fingers dipping into the hot, wet depth of her. She gasped and shuddered, arms upraised as if she could reach behind and hold him to her.

His other hand slid her bra up out of the way and began to play, to pluck, to tease. With his fingers working their magic everywhere, an orgasm stole over her in a hot instant, leaving her shuddering and weak and desperate for even more.

He turned her around and put her back against the wall. “God, you're gorgeous,” he said in a guttural voice.

He bent and took as much of her breast into his mouth as he could. She was sensitive from her recent pleasure, but oh so ready to have more as urgency hummed through her with the movement of his lips and tongue. With his fingers, he teased her other breast.

“Don't wait,” she whispered against his short hair. “Please don't wait. Do you have protection? Because if not, I do.”

He nodded, coming up to kiss her even as he delved into his pocket. While he tore the foil, she unzipped him, reaching down inside his boxer briefs for the long, hard heat of him. He momentarily braced a hand on the wall beside her, head bowed, body shuddering, as he just let her caress him.

Then he unrolled the condom with practiced ease. When she would have turned eagerly toward the bedroom, he pulled her back to him.

“Can't wait,” he said hoarsely, putting her up against the wall.

She gasped with excited eagerness. He didn't mean—­she was too heavy—­

But then he picked her right off the ground, and she wrapped herself around him, thighs clutching his naked hips. While his hands cupped beneath her, she reached between them and guided him to her entrance.

With a groan, he slid home, pinning her against the wall. She cried out, holding him, rolling her hips into him, letting his urgency sweep over her. He took her mouth again, even as he thrust over and over. She came again with a sobbing cry, and when a minute later, he shuddered with his own climax, it only extended her pleasure.

Her hands fell away from him, boneless with languor. “You should probably put me down before—­”

But still holding her, still inside her, he stepped out of the pants and carried her down the hall. “Which is your bedroom?”

“On the left,” she said, feeling giddy at his strength.

He leaned over the edge of her bed and placed her on her back, bracing his arms on either side of her, still buried within. She stared up at him, knowing she should feel silly—­her bra was up near her neck, her skirt bunched around her waist.

Instead, she felt totally—­what was the word from her favorite romances?—­ravished. Desired. Satisfied. She grinned up at him, and at last, searching her face, he grinned in return.

God, it was a good grin, handsome, cocky, pleased with himself. She laughed aloud, then groaned her displeasure when he straightened up. He fell onto his back at her side.

“You must be exhausted,” she said, coming up onto her elbow to look at him, to run her hand along his abs and up that powerful chest.

And he was so easy to look at, his body sculpted into the perfection of hard muscle, capable, ready to be of ser­vice.

And boy, was he of ser­vice. She held back a giggle, and he eyed her warily.

“Nothing, really,” she insisted. “I'm just . . . happy.”

She reached behind her back and unclasped her bra, flinging it somewhere behind her. Her skirt came next, and that required her to stand. He left the bed for the bathroom, and when he returned, he carried his clothes, while she was lying as provocatively as possible, waiting for him.

She frowned. “You're not putting those on.”

He tossed them on a chair and held up a condom. “Not yet.”

Laughing, she reached for him.

An hour later, she lay curled against his side, her thigh resting over his, her arm across his chest as if she'd hold him there forever. Surely, she was just drowsy and not thinking straight. There'd be no “forever” for them, and it wasn't the first time that made her feel sad.

She tried to remind herself that he traveled all the time, that there were surely “women in other ports,” or so the old saying went. It didn't make her feel better. She didn't feel like she was using him, not when they were so open about their expectations. This was just . . . fun. Surely, she could come up with a Last Single Girl in Valentine blog about how you survive a fling. And she would survive it, remembering the good times.