Their Wicked Wedding (13 page)

The mystery of that picture isn’t the problem, though. The problem is that for the first time since the madness began, I’m having a hard time seeing Taran Harker as the villain. If my father suspected he had a child in any way—potentially had a
picture
of that child—how could he turn his back? How could he abandon his own son after knowing such a miracle occurred?

Was my father capable of such a thing?

In disgust at such a thought, I pull my hand away from Louisa’s stomach. She and Lily both look at me in surprise.

“That’s wonderful,” I say, though I know my words ring false. I try again. “It’s truly beautiful, Louisa.”

This time I mean it. And Lily’s hand slips into mine as we walk back to our seats. Throughout the rest of the meal—which is only marginally better than the soup, though we all try our best to eat it—I keep stealing glances at Lily, trying to imagine her with a full belly and that warm glow on her cheeks. It’s startling, how easy it is.

And I am not my father
, I remind myself.
Any child of mine would know all of my love.
It scares me, how quickly my mind has shifted, how quickly this strange, hollow horror has filled my chest. Not an hour ago, I would have defended my father and his actions no matter what. But one touch of my sister’s belly, one feel of that little foot against my palm, and suddenly I’m filled with uncertainty. Shouldn’t the opposite be true? Shouldn’t I have felt that little miracle and been even surer that my father could never have abandoned a child?

Now that I’ve felt that baby, it’s as if the stakes have changed. And with this new emotional understanding of the situation, all of my doubts have surfaced.

My father would never have abandoned a son
, I tell myself.
He’d never have cheated on my mother, either, but if he did—if he made a mistake once—he’d have acknowledged the consequences.

But no matter how many times I repeat that in my head, I’m having trouble believing it. This afternoon I was so certain I knew the truth. Now, I’m not sure what I believe.

Lily’s hand touches my leg.

“Are you all right?” she asks.

I nod. “Of course.”

But I catch her fingers in mine and hold them for the rest of the meal. Whatever my father did, whoever Taran Harker might be, one thing is certain: Lily is here with all the love and understanding I could ever need.

I am not my father
, I repeat to myself. Why should I sit here wallowing in shame over some sin he may or may not have committed? I have the whole world right here in front of me. Holding my hand. I would never do anything to jeopardize this.

I am not my father.

But I’m not certain that’s any comfort to Taran Harker, wherever he is.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

LILY

“I’ll do the dishes,” I say when dinner is over.

Lou starts to protest, but I cut her off.

“You cooked,” I tell her. “That means you’re off duty for the rest of the night.”

“No way. This is your wedding weekend. You have enough to deal with without having to worry about dishes.”

“Ladies,” Ward says, rising. “Both of you can relax. I’ve got the dishes.”

But Calder rises just a moment after him. “And you two have done enough for us already, letting us have our wedding here. Lily and I can manage to clean up.”

There’s something about his tone—polite and generous though it seems on the surface—that ends the conversation immediately. I’m glad to win the argument, but I’m worried by the edge in Calder’s voice. I didn’t miss the words he used—that subtle reference to the fact that they’re
letting us
have our wedding here. It’s the first time I’ve heard even a hint of bitterness from Calder about the situation, but he’s been acting strange for most of the evening. Ever since he felt Lou and Ward’s little baby kick. I’m sure now that it must be heartbreaking for him to watch other people—even if one of those people is his sister—start a family here, to watch them build their lives in the place he once called home.

I almost bring it up to him as we cart the dishes back to the kitchen. He seems preoccupied. On the other hand, I don’t want to make the same mistake that led to our argument last night. I need to trust him. Better to let him brood if he needs to and come to me when and if he wants to talk.

“I’ll start washing if you go get the rest,” I tell him as we stack the dishes next to the sink. Calder agrees and takes the cart back to the dining room, and I fill the sink with hot, soapy water and gather the pots and pans from the stovetop. The utensils can all go in the industrial dishwasher—one of the many luxuries left over from the estate’s time as a resort—but the pots, as well as the china we used, should be washed by hand.

I slide an apron over my dress and tie up my hair. There are some rubber gloves next to the sink, and I slip those on before dipping my hands in the water. There’s no reason to ruin my brand-new manicure.

I hum to myself as I wipe down the china piece by piece. Dinner tonight wasn’t without its moments of awkwardness, and Calder’s change in mood worries me, but there was also something… enjoyable about the whole thing. It felt like a true “family” dinner, and I’m going to miss nights like this when Calder and I return to our real lives after the wedding. Part of me never wants this to end.

I’m elbows deep in suds when I feel hands around my waist. I recognize Calder by his touch—and his scent—immediately. For a moment, he says nothing, and I wonder if he’s working up the courage to discuss whatever it is that’s bothering him. Instead, he seems to come to some decision. I sense the shift in him, the lightening of his mood, even before he speaks.

“Need any help?” he murmurs in my ear.

He sounds much more like his usual self, and I’m glad. I would do anything to take away his worries.

“I’d love some help,” I tell him, just happy to have him near. I wiggle my butt against him, trying to draw him closer.

His hands slide up my sides and then down again, coming to rest on my hips.

“You’re very sexy when you’re being domestic,” he murmurs.

My cheeks go hot. “You say that now, but just wait until I’m old and doing this in ratty slippers and a muumuu.”

“Mm, I’m actually looking forward to that. I have a feeling you’re still going to be very sexy,” he says. “But I have to admit… this dress does add a little something to the current picture.”

He pulls back just slightly, and I know he’s taking a nice long look down my backside. I give him another wiggle before dipping my hands in the suds again.

His lips brush against my neck—once, and then again. His hands have started moving again, and they linger on my belly before gliding up toward my breasts.

“We’re alone now,” he says. “And if I remember correctly, there are a few things we need to finish.”

“Like the dishes?” I tease.

He chuckles, a warm vibration that moves through my body and all the way down my spine.

“Fine,” he says. “We’ll do the dishes first.”

He steps forward, trapping me against the sink. His hands move from my breasts to my arms, and his fingers slide down their length, first over my bare skin and then over the gloves. I have a dish in one hand and a sponge in the other, and he guides me through the motions of scrubbing the plate clean.

It’s not exactly the most efficient way to go about the task, but I’m not about to push Calder away, not when just the heat of him at my back makes my knees weak. His guiding touch is firm, but gentle in a way that sends shivers back up the length of my arms. We’ve been so disconnected these past few days, and I feel like we’re finally finding each other again.

We set the first plate aside to be dried, and then he guides my hand to the next dirty piece of china. He directs my other hand, the one with the sponge, back into the soapy water. He doesn’t even seem to mind that he’s getting the cuffs of his sleeves wet. We wash this second plate like we did the first, then once again set it aside.

We move slowly through the stack of china, Calder’s hands guiding every movement of mine. He doesn’t say a word to me, and yet I can feel his every breath—in and out, and in and out—against my ear. His heart beats a rhythm against my back.

But it’s his hands that keep drawing my attention. No matter how aware I am of every place his body touches mine, my focus keeps coming back to the way his fingers curl around mine, the way he guides me delicately but deliberately through our task.

Then, after the current dish has been set aside to dry, he releases me. I almost protest, but before the words escape my mouth he’s starting to tug on the fingers of one of my gloves. It slides easily off of my hand. He repeats the process with my other hand. I’m so desperate to feel his bare fingers against mine that I don’t even care if my manicure gets ruined. But there’s something else on my hand that
does
matter.

Calder’s finger and thumb close down on either side of my engagement ring. Slowly, he turns it back and forth, letting the diamond catch the light, but I know he’s not thinking about karats right now.

“We wouldn’t want anything to happen to this,” he says in my ear, his voice like velvet. “But don’t worry. It’s not going far.”

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he slides it off of my finger. He brings it up toward his face, and I feel more than see him kiss the small band over my left shoulder. And then his hand drops, and he slides the ring into his pocket.

When his hands return to mine again, it’s like we’re experiencing each other for the first time. My whole body quivers with the intensity of that touch.

He doesn’t guide me to the next dish. Instead, he slowly lowers my hands into the warm water until we’re both wrist-deep in suds. And then his fingers slide up my arms, trailing bubbles across my skin, and the sensation is like the softest of kisses, a feather-light touch that’s both wispy and wet.

His hands slide back down into the water and then up again, bringing the bubbles higher now. Almost to my elbows. It would tickle if it weren’t so arousing. Every nerve ending in my arms dances beneath the delicate touch of those suds.

The next time, he brings them up past my elbows. I close my eyes so I don’t notice anything but the amazingly erotic sensation it creates. It’s the most delicate caress I’ve ever felt.

I want him to feel this, too.

When his hands dip into the water again, I catch him by the wrists. He doesn’t try to pull away, so I take the chance to undo the cuff on each of his sleeves and push the fabric up his arms. And then I curl my hands, catching as many bubbles as I can in each palm, and spread them carefully across his skin.

His breath quickens in my ear, and I know he’s experiencing what I felt only a moment ago. I take another handful of suds and repeat the motion, reveling in the sensation of the bubbles popping between us.

He presses forward, pushing me against the sink. Calder’s not one to let me have control for long.

He grabs my hands when I dip them in the water again, and our fingers intertwine beneath the suds. He turns his face and kisses my ear, and then he pulls his hand—still laced with mine—from the water. He brings our sudsy, tangled fingers to my throat, and he traces me lightly from my jaw down to the neckline of my dress. Our fingers leave a thin wet trail across my skin, and I shiver.

Next he moves our hands slowly from one side of my throat to the other. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt before, that soft fizzle of dozens of little bubbles as they pop against my skin. Tiny beads of water dribble down my body, sliding beneath the fabric of my dress. The water was warm when I filled the sink, but now, and against my heated skin, it feels as cold as ice. Calder dips his head and blows across my skin, and another wave of goose bumps ripples across my scalp.

He brings our hands down to the water again, and this time he releases me. When his hand returns to my neck, his touch isn’t quite so delicate. His fingers glide across my skin, up and down my throat and then around the neckline of my dress, and I don’t even care that he’s getting the fabric all wet. My head falls back against his shoulder, exposing more of my throat to him, and now he allows his lips to play as well. He kisses every bit of skin he can reach from his position while his hand continues to slide along the length of my jaw.

I can’t take it anymore. I twist in his arms, turning to face him. My wet, soapy hands fly to the buttons of his shirt, and I have them undone before he has a chance to stop me. My fingers slip across his bare chest, and though there aren’t any bubbles left by the time I reach his neck, he doesn’t seem to mind. His eyes are dark and heavy-lidded, and he lets his shirt fall completely away.

He doesn’t say a word, but he grabs me by the waist and spins me around again. He undoes my zipper and slides my dress off of my shoulders. It’s too snug to fall off of me on its own, and he takes his time sliding it down my body, as if unwrapping me inch by inch.

When I’m finally down to my bra and panties—the same ones that excited him so much when he stumbled into my room earlier—I try to turn around again, but he won’t let me. He keeps me pinned against the sink, and once more he reaches around me and into the water. He scoops up a handful of froth and lifts it toward me. This time he doesn’t bring them to my throat, but rather around to my back. Suddenly I feel the unmistakable tickle of suds between my shoulder blades, and I let out a gasp. He moves his hand downward, as if trying to trace my spine in bubbles. Water drips down the curve of my back, and I arch toward him in response.

When he’s done painting my skin with suds, he turns me around again. But as I spin, I catch my own handful of soap, so by the time I’m face-to-face with him once more, I’m ready.

I raise my fingers to his cheek. He closes his eyes as I explore every perfect line of him—his strong jaw, his straight nose, his wide brow. The bubbles kiss his skin, and when all of them have popped, I lean forward and kiss him too.

Immediately his arms come up around me. He leans me against the sink, and his mouth attacks mine again and again until I can hardly stand. His fingers tug at the edge of my panties, and then my bra, but he doesn’t try to take either off. He’s still wearing his pants, though, and that’s a problem.

I undo his belt, then his zipper. My fingers are still wet and they slip at the task, but I manage it after a moment. His pants end up on the ground in the quickly growing puddle of clothes and suds beneath us. And our dripping, nearly-bare bodies slip against each other. Any bubbles that linger on our skin don’t survive our frantic movements.

“Please,” I tell him. “Don’t make me wait any longer.”

He nods in response, and then he twists me back to my original position facing the sink. I only just manage to grab the edges of the basin as he pulls the crotch of my crimson panties aside. He gives me a single hot kiss on my shoulder before slipping his cock between my legs and driving inside of me.

My fingers curl around the edges of the sink and I moan.

It’s only been a matter of days since the last time we made love, but it feels like so much longer. My body reacts immediately to this familiar invasion, tightening in pleasure and relief that Calder and I are once more joined. Calder must be feeling something similar, and the strangled growl he makes calls to something deep in my soul.

Neither of us has the patience for a drawn-out lovemaking session. Not after the week we’ve had so far. I just want him as deep inside of me as he can go, as close to me as two people can possibly get, and I know he feels a similar hunger.

One of his hands moves from my hips around to the front of my body. His fingers slip beneath the seam of my panties and down to my clit, and it only takes a few careful strokes before I break. My body contracts around his, and he groans and grabs my hips again, thrusting into me with greater and greater force until I feel the warmth of his own release. I’m still riding the waves of pleasure, still delirious with desire, and I lean over the sink, just trying to stay upright. Calder’s hands dig into my sides, though I’m not sure he’s aware of how hard he’s holding me. We’re both gasping for breath and wet from nose to heel, and I’m dizzy with satisfaction.