The Best Bride (60 page)

She told herself to pull away, or at least to slap him real hard. She did nothing but stare at his finger, at his hand, at their hands so close together. Then her chest got tight and she had to remind herself to breathe.

“What's wrong, Hannah?”

“Nothing.”

“Bull. I know you, and something's wrong.”

The assurance in his voice made her nervous. She withdrew her hand to her lap and took another sip of the margarita. Then she glanced around the room and tried to see if anyone she knew was in the bar. It wasn't likely. The cops at the station had their own hangout and it wasn't this trendy beachfront establishment. She and Nick were in a back corner booth with a view of the ocean to her right. The sun was just setting, sending shards of yellow and gold light across the calm sea. It was a picture-perfect moment, complete with the handsome, albeit slightly blurry escort.

“You don't know me at all,” she said.

“I know that you don't trust me, so why'd you accept my invitation for a drink?”

“Maybe your charm won me over.”

He laughed out loud. The pleasant sound brought a smile to her lips. “Try again,” he said.

He wasn't the only thing that was blurry, she realized. The edges of the room were starting to fold in on themselves. When was the last time she'd been this drunk? Once, at a friend's wedding, she recalled hazily, trying to remember exactly when. Maybe five years ago.

Why had she come out with Nick? She ignored the shifting room and thought about his question. Because he'd
asked her out about twice a week for a year and every single time she'd wanted to say yes.

It was dumb for a woman like her to be attracted to a man like him. It wasn't just that he was so much better-looking, or even that he was a criminal and she was a cop. It was that Nick lived life on a completely different level than she did. He got into the moment while she walked around with her head down. He was spontaneous laughter, spontaneous fun, spontaneous sex—oops, where had that thought come from?—while she planned everything out. He joked and teased while she kept the world at bay.

“I needed a break,” she said at last, mostly because it was true.

“Something tells me that's just an excuse. You're using me to put off something you don't want to do.”

Her head snapped up. Big mistake. The slight blurring became a wild spinning. Even her seat seemed to be moving. Then she sucked in some air and it all slowed to a manageable level.

“Maybe,” she admitted.

Her hands were once again on the table. He reached across and grabbed one. His thumb brushed against the back of her fingers. It felt nice.

“I need a husband,” she blurted out.

To his credit, Nick didn't withdraw, or even stiffen. His thumb kept moving back and forth, back and forth. A lethargic heat crept up her arm. His gaze continued to hold hers, the half smile still hovering at the corners of his mouth. Maybe he hadn't heard her. Maybe she hadn't actually said it out loud.

“A husband?” he asked calmly. “The usual reason?”

“Usual reason? What's that?” She thought for a second. “Oh. Oh! Ah, no, not that. I mean, I'm not pregnant.”

Embarrassment flooded her and she gulped the rest of
her drink. She thought about flagging down the waitress for another, then decided she was going to be sick enough in the morning as it was. Besides, Nick was still on his first beer and he'd barely touched it at all.

“Good.”

She blinked. What were they talking about? “Good what?”

“I'm glad you're not pregnant.”

“Me, too. Oh, the husband thing.” She waved her free hand. “I have some family business. It requires me to be married for a few days. I don't know. Maybe not. Maybe I should just come clean. But she's so old. What if the shock kills her?” She stared at him earnestly. “I really wouldn't want that to happen. I haven't actually even met her, but I want to. Do you think she'll understand?”

“Yes.”

She had a brief moment of clarity. “You don't have a clue as to what I'm talking about, do you?”

“Nope. But I like the sound of your voice, so just keep talking.”

She realized he was still stroking her fingers with his thumb. Regretfully, she pulled free of the seductive contact. If only it was true. If only Nick Archer really
did
think she was a hot babe.

Hannah giggled. She was athletic, strong, and she wore a pistol when she went to work. Somehow she didn't think she fitted the definition of the word
babe.

He toyed with her because it amused him and probably because she hadn't fallen at his feet the first time she'd seen him. She would have fallen, but she'd already been sitting down, so it had been easy to pretend to be calm.

“You could hire a husband,” he said. “If it's only temporary.”

“Oh, it is. Just for a few days. Believe me, I've thought
about it and I could phone…” She glared at him. “You're laughing at me.”

“Only a little. So what kind of guy would you ask for, Hannah? Who's your ideal man?”

The numbness spread up her face, although strangely enough, she could actually feel her eyelashes.

Him. He was perfect, at least physically. But she wasn't about to say that. She would have to be a whole lot drunker than this to confess that little secret to Nick.

“Someone who follows the rules,” she said.

He winced as if she'd slapped him. “That one hurt. Are you implying I'm not a rule follower?”

“You're a common criminal.”

“I might be a criminal, but I've never been common.” He leaned back in the booth. “How long do you need the guy for?”

“Three or four days. Just to drive north, meet my family, then come back.”

“Sounds simple enough. What does it pay?”

“Why do you ask?”

He held out both hands, palms up. “You could never phone an escort service to hire someone and we both know it. Call the interest a friendly gesture on my part.”

“But we're not friends,” she muttered, then cleared her throat. Nick? A temporary husband? She shuddered. It would never work.

“How much?” he asked. When she stared at him blankly, he asked, “How much are you willing to pay?”

“I'm not sure. I haven't thought about money.” What was the going hourly rate for fake husbands these days? “It doesn't matter. You're not right for this. I'm sorry I mentioned it.”

She started to slide out of the booth, but it was harder to move than she thought it would be. Then he placed his
hand over hers and that darn heat started up again, and she didn't want to move.

“I'm happy to help,” he said. “I need to get out of town for a few days anyway.”

“Oh, I'll just bet you do. What is it this time? A real-estate deal gone wrong? Or maybe the husband of one of your women decided to take matters into his own hands.”

Nick stared at her for a long time. Something flickered in his gaze, something dark and secretive. Then he blinked and it was gone. “You wouldn't believe me if I told you,” he said lightly. “Face it, Hannah. Where else are you going to find a man willing to pretend to be your husband on such short notice?”

He was right. She certainly didn't have the skills to seduce a man into doing it, nor was there a man around. Except for Nick. Not that she was interested in seducing Nick.

She hunched over, half expecting lightning to strike. When it didn't, she straightened. She could do worse. At least he was gorgeous. And he thought on his feet. If anyone started asking questions, Nick would be able to ward them off. It was only for a couple of days and it wasn't as if she was overflowing with other options.

“I'll pay two hundred dollars and the travel expenses,” she said, then nearly bit her tongue in her haste to call the words back. But it was too late.

He raised his eyebrows. “I was thinking more of a trade. One weekend of husbanding for one night of—”

She raised her hand. “Don't say it.”

“Passionate lovemaking,” he finished.

She winced. “Four hundred, in cash. No touching.”

“Let's spend the weekend negotiating. When do you want to leave?”

Was there really a choice? Despite all her talk, she would
never have been able to call an escort service. Wasn't bringing Nick along better than breaking an old woman's heart? “In the morning. I want to be there on Saturday.”

“Where is there?”

“Northern California.”

He held out his hand. “Do we have a deal?”

She wished she had another shot to give her courage. She wished she'd never mentioned it in the first place. She wished she'd never gotten in his car.

But wishing didn't change anything and he was her best bet. That's probably why she was here, having a drink with him. The power of the subconscious mind at work.

She slipped her hand in his and they shook. The contact was electric. She expected to see smoke and fire, but there was only Nick smiling at her. Enjoying her predicament and having power over her at last.

And he did have power. Comparing his power to the power of the subconscious mind was like comparing an eighteen-wheeler to a toy truck. She had a bad feeling she had just stepped in front of headlights and was about to be mowed down.

H
annah stared at the front door. She didn't want to open it. Not only because her head hurt and the thought of sunlight was enough to bring tears to her eyes, but also because she didn't want to face the man on the other side.

Insanity. There was no other explanation. Maybe it ran in her family. She'd been adopted, so there was no way to tell. Or maybe her blood sugar had dipped below the normal range and she'd had a brief blackout episode. Whatever the explanation, she didn't have the guts to face him and accept what they'd agreed to do.

He knocked again. “Hannah? Are you awake?”

“Yes,” she whispered even though she knew he couldn't hear her. She cleared her throat and spoke more loudly. “I'm right here. Hold on.”

She turned the key in the dead-bolt lock and pulled open the door. Nick stood on the front step of her town house. The sunlight made her blink, as did Nick. It wasn't fair.
Even in her weakened condition—with her head pounding and her stomach rolling—he looked good. Better than good. He looked tempting.

She was used to being impressed by his sheer male beauty. He was a California cliche´ with his blond hair, blue eyes and loose, easy stride. The well-made suits he wore only enhanced his assets. If he had any physical flaws, she'd never noticed. She'd gotten used to ignoring his good looks, his tailored clothing, his bright smile. They were meaningless trappings that merely concealed the flaws in his character. She was immune.

Well, unless she had a hangover. She stood in the doorway and reminded herself to breathe. In and out, in and out until the involuntary function kicked back in on its own. He wasn't wearing a suit, or handmade shoes, or even a tie. Instead, he'd dressed in jeans and a plain white shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His boots looked worn. But the smile was just as devastating as it always had been. Thank the Lord she could blame her weak knees on her hangover.

“You look awful,” he said cheerfully and pushed past her into the town house. “Hangover?”

“No,” she murmured between clenched teeth. The volume of his voice made her head ache. “I feel fine.”

“Uh-huh.” He moved in front of her, shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “I can tell. Are you packed?”

“Yes.”

It wasn't only the effects of the alcohol that were slowing her down. It was also lack of sleep. At four in the morning, her eyes had popped open. Despite how awful she felt, or perhaps because of it, she hadn't been able to get back to sleep. She'd stared at the ceiling alternately praying that
her memories about their evening together had been a dream, then hoping they were real.

“Did you take anything?” he asked. “Aspirin?”

She nodded, then wished she hadn't actually moved her head.

His smile was sympathetic. “You're such a straitlaced person, I doubt I could talk you into trying the hair of the dog, right?”

She stared at his face, at the wide blue eyes, the straight nose that should have been broken countless times but obviously hadn't been. At the strong mouth, stubborn chin, the freshly shaved, tanned skin. He was gorgeous. It wasn't fair.

His being nice to her only made it worse, she thought miserably as her stomach churned again. She hated when people tried to take care of her. She knew what was going on. They wanted to lull her into trusting them, then they would leave. She wasn't about to play that game again.

“I'm fine,” she snapped and took a step back. “And I'm ready to go.”

“Great.”

She sucked in a deep breath, grabbing hold of the front door when dizziness threatened. “Where's my car?”

“In the carport.”

That's what she'd been afraid of. Her recollections of the end of the evening were fuzzy at best. She did remember Nick telling her she was way too drunk to drive and her agreeing with him about that. So instead of taking her back to the police station to collect her car, he'd brought her home. She vaguely recalled he'd promised to have her car delivered to her town house carport. Simple enough… except for one small problem.

She reached up toward the keys hanging from the lock
in the front door. She found her car key and tugged on it gently. “You didn't have a car key,” she said.

His sympathetic smile broadened and she nearly lost her balance. “I know. I asked one of my associates to take care of it. You probably don't want to ask too many questions.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. Nick was right. Questions—or rather, answers—would only make her uncomfortable. She didn't want to think about the ramifications of someone breaking into and then hot-wiring her car, all while it sat in a police department parking lot.