Wedding Series Boxed Set (3 Books in 1) (The Wedding Series) (15 page)

Her wayward mind's production of the word
consummation
coincided with Paul shifting next to her in the booth of the tiny bar. The simple brushing of his leg against her set off sparklers along her skin that translated into something brighter and hotter deep inside.

Maybe relief wasn't her only reaction to the delay.

This introduction to his friends unsettled her in another way. Somehow it seemed Paul was allowing her to see a side of himself he had previously kept hidden. But she couldn't let herself fall into the trap of hoping for things like that.

She knew what Paul was, what he'd offered. And what she'd accepted.

He'd said it - he wanted her. Not a relationship, certainly not a future. The moment. And when the moment was over . . . Well, she'd be better off then if she didn't delude herself now.

She glanced up to find Michael Dickinson's observant eyes on her.

Paul had said he had a law degree and worked on the staff of State Senator Joan Bradon. She found herself pitying his political opponents.

He shifted his gaze to Paul.

"You're the one who keeps track of everybody, Paul - how's Judi doing?" Paul had told her both Michael and Grady viewed Judi as a kid sister. A sophomore at Northwestern, where they'd also gone to school, she lived in a dorm a mile from Paul's Evanston apartment.

"Classes, she's doing great. Socially, she's always complaining that the right guys don't go for her."

"They will," declared Michael. Michael Dickinson, Bette decided, would be a very good friend to have.

"She comes by sometimes. Claims she needs to use my computer, but it's really to raid the fridge. She's always complaining I don't have anything to eat in the place."

"Aw, Judi's Judi," said Grady with undisputable logic and affectionate acceptance. "Remember how she could pack it away when she was a kid, and she still stayed scrawny."

"Maybe so, but she's not scrawny anymore and she's still eating me out of house and home."

They all smiled at the plaintive note in Paul's voice.

"I heard you were out in D.C. last week, Paul. How's Tris? She's not pining after that jerk ex-husband, is she?"

Grady asked the question, but Bette had the impression Paul didn't direct his answer to him, but rather to Michael. "If she ever pined for him at all, she's not pining now. It was a pretty friendly divorce, really, and she's long past it. Years ago. She's grown up, like we all have."

"No way," objected Grady with a chuckle. "Maybe Michael's grown up, but you and I are as crazy as ever, Monroe."

Bette thought she felt Paul's gaze on her, but she'd discovered a fascination for her nearly empty wine glass.

Grady's words didn't express anything she hadn't thought. So why should it bother her to hear someone else say it? Paul could deny it. He could say he wasn't a kid anymore. He could say he'd grown up.

The silence continued.

"Hey, how about another round?" Grady's attempt to turn the conversation was unsubtle, but effective. Without waiting for an answer, he eased out of the booth.

"I'll go with him," said Paul, with another glance at Bette. She felt the awkwardness from the moment before lingering, and wondered if he wanted to escape. "Another white wine, Bette?"

When she nodded, he, too, rose, following Grady toward the jammed bar.

"SO YOU'VE GONE
and done it."

Paul stilled at Grady's words. "Gone and done what?"

Grady placed their order with the harried bartender, then tipped his head back toward the table. "Found someone worth bringing into the family."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

He wished he didn't know what the clutching panic in his gut was about. It was the same fear that had kept his heart from soaring right now out the window, past the skyline and into the clouds, when Bette said she'd go out with him.

Go out with him? She'd agreed to more than that.

They'd both acknowledged it in the heated exchange of looks and desire across his desk. So why postpone the moment? He'd dealt with other women this way, no promises made or expected. Why not now?

"Whoa, don't take my head off, Monroe." Grady pretended to back away. "I meant the family of your close friends - you know, Michael and me. Tris."

"Stuff it, Roberts," he growled, but his tension eased. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to bring Bette together with the other people he - He stumbled on the mental phrasing, realizing he was including Bette in the group.

That he cared for, he finally supplied.

"You've got to admit this is a novel experience. I can't remember you ever bringing a woman to meet us before."

Paul scowled at the echo of his father's words from a few weeks before. Why was everyone making such a big flaming deal of this?

"So? You think everybody's like you, with the passion of the second? You've introduced us to so many women you must have a revolving door."

The blue of Grady's eyes seemed to flicker. Paul wanted to kick himself. As he had with Michael not so long ago, he'd lashed out and hit his friend where it hurt worst. What the hell was the matter with him? He knew Grady wasn't proud of his track record with women.

"No, that's just it, Paul. I don't think you're like me. I think you've always recognized what I'm just starting to figure out: quality beats the hell out of quantity."

"Look, Grady, I'm sorry for that crack. I didn't mean it. It's just . . . let's forget the whole thing, okay?"

Grady's impatient shrug dismissed both the apology and the effort to turn the conversation. "She seems like a nice woman, Paul. A good person. Try not to be as stupid as the rest of us. Try to make it work."

Paul stared, astonished by Grady's intensity. They'd been friends since grade school, and he couldn't remember if they'd ever had a conversation like this.

Handing money to the bartender, Paul felt grateful for the mundane occupation. At least something remained normal in a world developing more and more unfamiliar corners.

BETTE WATCHED PAUL
weave through the crowd, and considered this trio. Michael Dickinson, perceptive and rather intense. Grady Roberts, accepting and trading on his charm. And Paul. The man who said he believed in no strings and keeping his options open, yet clearly the glue that held the three of them together.

"They're great guys," Michael said, appearing not to notice when her hand jerked, dragging the wine glass an inch across the table. With an offhand directness that belied the scrutiny he focused on her, he added, "Of course, Grady's a bit spoiled from having things go his way so much."

Michael clearly liked Grady, yet had no delusions. "Probably understandable when you grow up good-looking, wealthy and smart and then add your own success," she said.

"Yeah, that'd do it."

She smiled. She liked his dryness.

He looked over to Paul and Grady at the bar. "I guess it's understandable, too, that Paul's the way he is."

She felt her lips stiffen. "What way is that?"

"Oh, sort of a fly-by-night character. Not willing to be tied down long enough so anyone else can rely on him."

"He is not." She tried to keep the hostility out of her voice, but heard her own indignation.

"Isn't he?" His quietness didn't soothe her.

"He definitely is not." What sort of idiot could be his friend for fifteen years and not see the truth about Paul?
Why are you so angry at him for saying exactly the same things you've said to yourself
? she wondered. "He's devoted to his family and friends. Who's the one who keeps all of you in touch? He's a well-respected professional, who gives his clients honesty and impartiality. Plus he has the loyalty of the people who've worked for him." At least the ones he wasn't trying to drive crazy. "Look at Jan Robson. You don't have that sort of relationship with an employee when you're a 'fly-by-night character.' "

"Don't you?"

"No!"

"No," he agreed.

The mildness finally reached her. The adrenaline surge faded and she examined Michael. His lips twitched and a dimple appeared high on his left cheek.

"You're a rat," she informed him. "A tricky, wily political rat."

The grin completed its escape. "I just wanted to know if you'd seen through the Paul Monroe facade."

"Facade?"

"Mmm-hmm." He grew serious. "Not that he doesn't believe in it - at least parts. That's what's such a shame."

A skittering of panic trembled through her and settled in the pit of her stomach. Michael reached across the table to put his hand over hers. "He's not always the free spirit he pretends to be."

She thought she understood what he was saying: Paul did look beyond the moment - with people and responsibilities - but he didn't want to admit it. And that frightened her, because it gave her hope.

"Hey, Dickinson, get your hands off my date." Paul clunked down two glasses with a mock glare, but in his eyes, she saw something flare to life. A hint of possessiveness, of claiming? "Find yourself your own woman."

PAUL WAS EVERYTHING
Bette could ask for in a date. Funny, attentive, entertaining. He was also elusive, unattainable and distant.

He was driving her crazy.

They joked and laughed and talked. They had long conversations on the phone when she should have been working. He called to say nothing more complex than good-morning. He brought Chinese food to her office for lunch. They met Grady and Michael twice more that week for dinner. They pored over real estate listings she had compiled, with Paul volunteering plenty of opinions, most of which involved the idea that she shouldn't live so far away - whether from him or her work, he never quite specified. They saw a movie.

He never touched her.

Well, that wasn't quite true, she admitted to herself. He touched her just enough to drive her mad. Just enough to make her consider raking her fingernails along a brick wall to get rid of the frustration of envisioning circumstances when she would press them into his back, but never having the satisfaction of doing it.

He looped an arm around her shoulders at the movies, then never drew her closer. He brushed his fingers across her collarbone while helping her with her coat, then never ventured lower. He touched his lips to hers each night when he drove her home, then never pressed the kiss deeper.

Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday.

Now it was Friday. In frustration she'd told him she needed to work late to catch up, hoping to escape his tormenting presence for one night, just long enough to regain some control.

He'd appeared at the office shortly after five and sat patiently waiting for her, until she wanted to scream. Instead, she'd given up and gone for a sandwich with him, and they'd come out of the tiny deli to find the sky streaming a combination of rain and snow.

"I don't think it's safe to drive tonight."

"Paul, it's not even really snowing. Look at the roads. It's more like slush." Spending dinner trying not to fantasize every time she looked across at his mouth had left her more than a little irritable.

"Slush," he repeated, shaking his head as if verifying his worst suspicions. "Slush can be very dangerous. You know, they don't even make slush tires. That's because no tire in the world can help you in slush."

"You're right," she agreed, abruptly changing tacks. Maybe she could at least cut the evening short. Go home now, spend a few hours alone, try to regain some sanity. "You've been driving way too much. I've tried to tell you it wasn't necessary to take me home every night, and I'm glad you're finally being sensible about this."

He grinned, but she saw his eyes heating in a most dangerous way. She needed to get away from him. She needed a respite from this constant arousing of her desire with never any satisfaction.

"I'll take the train."

"The train?" He looked thwarted for a moment, but quickly gathered himself. He gave her a long, considering look. "The train's the very worst thing you can do. Do you know what slush can do to train tracks? Make them a veritable death slide."

"I've never heard that before."

He made a scoffing sound. "Of course not. You think the railroads would let you know a thing like that? They'd lose all their commuters for the whole winter." He perked up, as if seeing the possibilities in the vision he'd created, and she wondered again at his ability to make her see humor even while he was making her lose her mind. "In fact, commuters by the droves would stay home all winter. No more driving, no more taking the train, just settling in for the winter at home in front of the fireplace and next to a good woman."

"Or man."

He tilted an eyebrow at her. "I'm not making judgments, but that's not my style."

"I meant," she explained severely, "that a lot of the commuters are women."

"Oh. Yeah, of course. I was speaking from a personal point of view."

"Uh-huh," she said with disapproval. But it hadn't been such a bad point of view. With a little imagination, she could visualize herself snuggled next to Paul in front of a fire, maybe with soft music in the background, a glass of wine, and without too many clothes. Settling in for the winter.

Tipping her chin up, she looked at him more closely in the eerie glow of streetlights diffused by sleet.

Four days ago, she'd reopened the door she'd earlier tried to close. But it hadn't led into a new stage in their relationship the way she'd expected it to.

On Monday, the day she'd crossed that emotional threshold, she'd been braced for the consequences. She wouldn't have been particularly surprised if he actually had taken her right then and there in his office. When he invited her to dinner with his friends instead, and left her at her front door with a near-chaste kiss, she'd thought he was showing an unsuspected tenderness, almost a delicacy.

But after Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday, she was inclined to say the hell with delicacy.

She'd made her decision. Why wait for winter? Waiting wouldn't change who he was, and it wouldn't give any guarantee of safety for her heart. Nor would it change how much she wanted him. It was time to fly.